


Magia Posthuma

by ink_magpie



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula - Bram Stoker, Dracula Untold (2014), Van Helsing (2004)
Genre: 18th Century, Attempted Abortion, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dracula Influence/References, Explicit Language, F/M, Forced Marriage, Gothic, Grief/Mourning, Historical, Historical References, Human/Vampire Relationship, Masks, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Miscarriage, Murder, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rating: M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Transylvania, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampire Bites, Vampires, Vienna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 17:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 142,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20710178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink_magpie/pseuds/ink_magpie
Summary: When the Empress appoints Irina's father as the new Governor of Transylvania, the young Duchess is swept away from her glamorous life at court in Vienna to the mysterious "land beyond the forest" where danger lurks and superstition reigns. When a peasant girl is attacked, Irina is drawn into the hunt for the monster responsible, all the while fighting feelings for the mysterious masked man who threatens to unravel her reputation...





	1. One

**Vienna, Christmastide 1768 **

When Irina closed her eyes, warm light sunk from the vast ceiling chandelier floating high above the bobbing crowd of powdered wigs below. It made the floor underfoot gleam like icing, shimmered off gilt mirrors fixed to the panelled walls and gave the ballroom a hazy golden glow – like sunlight on an autumn dawn.

She made her way through the throng of courtiers, manoeuvring her wide, satin-covered panniers as gracefully as she could around couples dancing the minuet, between ministers arguing over politics and groups of ladies gossiping behind their silk fans.

"...Oh, Countess! If only you'd been there! It was a _shameless_ display! She tumbled backwards off the sled – _far_ too gracefully for it to be an accident – her petticoats flew upwards, and... well, we all had an eyeful. Oh, it was the most _grotesque_ spectacle! All these gentlemen swarmed and squatted to help her like bees around honey – which is _precisely_ what the jade was hoping for, I'm sure–"

Irina snapped open her fan and hid behind the bones as she steered clear, sidestepping behind a group of men listening to a joke.

"...It was like a pear, gentlemen. Ripe and round, with a delicious pink flush," Prince Kaunitz announced with a wink, much to the amusement of the gentlemen standing around him. "And to think I almost spent that evening behind my desk crafting contracts for the new Governor of Transylvania. And no, before you ask, gentlemen, I can't tell you _who_ it is – but I can say that the Empress _has_ chosen her man..."

A couple of the men turned as they felt satin skirts brush against the backs of their calves as well as the slightest hint of rosewater perfume wafting by. But the lady had already vanished.

Enormous and opulent, the grand ballroom of the Imperial Palace had seen many royal events from the ceremonial to the celebratory. Hundreds of court fêtes, masques, balls, galas and recitals all punctuated by the arrival and departure of important guests from all over Europe. Decorated generals from France and Russia came to flirt with the female courtiers, whilst writers and scientists from England – as well as precocious harpsichord-playing child prodigies from Salzburg – came looking for royal patronage. Tonight however, the painted eyes of Habsburg royalty past and present looked down as the room filled up to celebrate Twelfth Night and the end of Christmastide.

On the edge of the ballroom – close to where the chamber orchestra were playing – Irina found a cool alcove near a tall window. Outside, the snow was falling in heavy drifts, burying the rose garden beneath a blanket of white, and etching the window panes with vines of frost. The glass held her reflection like a mirror, and she took a moment to pin up a brown curl that had fallen onto her shoulder, and to smooth the lace ruffles and fox fur decorating the sleeves and stomacher of her blue gown. She frowned when she noticed her face powder was fading away; her freckles were peering through across her nose and cheeks. If only there was a tincture that she could whip up to make them go away! If only her freckles were the only thing she needed to worry about!

She was so preoccupied with pinching and prodding her nose that she became completely unaware of the ballroom spinning shades behind her and even failed to notice when a familiar reflection stepped out from amidst the whirring crowds and approached her with the arrogant swagger of an actor ascending the stage.

He cleared his throat. "...The Duchess of Brunswick was never more radiant than in ermine on top of a sled–"

Irina's brown eyes flashed upwards at the sound of her title to see the Prince of Zweibrücken's grinning reflection in the glass.

"–But, far prettier to behold was when the driver called 'go!' and the sled drew away with gusto," he continued, gesturing with two gleaming glasses of punch.

Irina spun away from the window, her skirts rustling. Warm tendrils of hair bounced around her severe brown eyes. "Karl, if you _dare_ to even–"

"Ah, ah! Irina! Allow me to finish," he insisted. "It gets much better, and I'm sure you'll find the ending quite uh... _pleasing_," he added, quirking an eyebrow.

Irina sent him an impatient sideways glance as he circled her. He towered over, although that wasn't difficult – she was small and slight, so much so that she'd earned the nickname The Little Duchess, not just because of her height, but because she'd inherited her title barely a day after she was born.

"...Now, where was I? Ah yes!" he went on. "With ankles aloft – diamond garters displayed – the Duchess fell into the snow. Her shame, I am told, 'neath velvet skirts did enfold... but her buttocks did blush in the cold."

Irina sighed, then applauded slowly.

"I thank you," Karl said as he punctuated his performance with a bow, strands of his powdered ash blonde hair falling across his face.

"Scoundrel," she snapped, swatting his shoulder with her closed fan.

"I had a feeling you'd like it," Karl taunted as he stepped beside her, the tails of his embroidered coat flapping as he swirled.

The first snow of winter was just as exciting as when the opera came to court. As soon as the first flakes began to settle, golden sleighs in the shape of swans were dusted off and dragged from their sheds with the festive jingling of bells. Sledging parties set out together at dusk to explore the Austrian countryside by torchlight, with everyone huddled together under blankets of fur. On Christmas Eve however, a slight mishap had occurred when a certain Archduchess, unaware that her sledging partner and best friend wasn't seated, had called out for their driver to quickly pull away.

"Exactly how long did you spend crafting that horrible masterpiece?" Irina asked as she opened her fan and hid behind its satin flesh.

Karl grinned. "Ah, alas! My quill on this occasion, dear Irina, is dry. I actually happened across it whilst reading The Chronicle," he explained, chancing a small sip from one of the glasses of punch. "Accompanied, I must say, by an _incredibly_ detailed engraving. I think I might still have it somewhere if you're interested?"

Irina slapped her fan to her face. "Only to burn it!" she whined. "And anyway, I _know_ exactly what my own arse looks like and honestly, I don't understand what's so fascinating about it."

Karl raised an eyebrow as he peered around the crowded room. "Well, you're the only one," he replied. "It's all anyone wants to talk about. I even overheard someone mention that you've inspired Herr Gluck away from penning another tragic opera in favour of a comic one about The Queen of Winter."

Irina was aghast; now she couldn't go and enjoy the opera either? "I can think of a _hundred_ things more interesting than my bruised backside," she complained. "The situation in Poland, for example? The whole La Finta Semplice debacle, or–"

Karl scoffed. "Oh, the Salzburger's left Vienna, didn't you hear? Been dragged off to Italy by his papa. Thank God; we've all had quite enough of the precocious little beast."

Irina pouted. "Oh. I was looking forward to hearing his opera. His little concertos are masterly," she sighed before continuing with her previous thought. "_Or_, perhaps they could place bets on who the new Governor of Transylvania is going to be?" she suggested with a shrug. "And more to the point, how long he'll last this time."

"True. I don't envy the fellow, whoever he is," Karl replied. "Shipping off to the arse end of the empire to govern a rabble of enslaved peasants and Hungarian nobles with a chip on their shoulder."

"It's nothing more than a barbaric backwater from what I've heard," Irina said, shaking her head. "I mean, some of the stories–"

Karl hummed in agreement.

"–Countesses bathing in the blood of serfs, peasants hysterically digging up graves and burning witches..." Irina said, recalling the tales she'd heard and read about as a child. "..._Count_ _Dracula_."

They were horror stories that had been slowly bleeding out over the centuries, circulated around the empire in pamphlets. It was uncertain how much of the tales were true, but there were far too many of them of them to be ignored. Those distant corners of the empire – full of ancient forests and cold, crumbling castles – were misty with superstition and populated by noble families who had been raised on blood and brutality.

"Here, have a glass of Wassail," Karl said, nudging her with his elbow and offering his second glass. "Excellent for warming frost-bitten extremities."

Irina snatched the glass. The liquid inside sloshed. "I can promise you now Karl, you and Amalia will _never_ get me into one of those sleighs again – my back is purple!" she vowed, following her resolution with a rather unladylike swig of punch. Thank goodness for that home remedy she found in that book about botanical cures; an hour with her homemade herbal compress every evening seemed to have done the trick.

"Cheer up," Karl said. "Your blushing backside will be old news within a week – they'll have found some clumsy Countess to ridicule instead, or, they'll simply return to writing excruciatingly detailed drivel about what you wore to the Opera."

Irina drew in a deep breath then let it out. The Chronicle was never starved for stories; they'd certainly grow bored of her soon enough. "...I suppose."

Karl smiled and raised his glass, "A toast. To humiliations past and present."

Irina raised an eyebrow. "And future, no doubt."

"_And_ future," he announced. "Salut! _Stärke trinken_!"

She lifted her glass to his with a little clink. "Salut."

Beside them, the orchestra slowed as another concerto ended, and in the centre of the ballroom those who'd been dancing gave a limp applause. For one of the most exciting feast days on the calendar the whole affair had been a little subdued. In previous years the celebrations had raged until the following dawn. Champagne had been swigged excessively, gentlemen had gambled away fortunes at cards, and ladies had danced so much that they needed carrying to their carriages. The great feast was served up on a wave of Christmas hunting parties in the snow, and throughout the palace, decorative wreaths of evergreen, holly and mistletoe had been wrapped around staircases and hung over every doorway.

Karl groaned. "By God if this isn't the most miserable Twelfth Night ball that I've ever had the misfortune of attending."

"_Especially_ when you think of all the fabulous fun we usually have around this time of year," Irina said, smiling wistfully as she thought of the wild celebrations of previous years. "Do you remember that ridiculous masque Amalia held at Schönbrunn in secret last year?"

Karl laughed infectiously. "Remember? I wish I could forget!"

"Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it, Karl," she teased, bumping him gently with her panniers. "I thought you made a _very_ becoming woman."

Karl pulled a face. "I have no idea how you ladies wear all that nonsense, honestly."

"I quite enjoyed wearing breeches," Irina said, smoothing her skirts gently with one hand. "...Although it almost put my father in his grave right next to my mother when he found out about it."

"The Empress too, I imagine," Karl said.

Irina turned. "How _did_ she find out? Because it caused such a scandal that we weren't allowed to even mention it for _months_ after," she speculated. But the answer seemed to pop into her head before Karl could open his mouth. "Oh, don't tell me–"

They answered together. "_Christine_."

Irina shook her head. She wasn't at all surprised that the Empress' favourite child had told on her little sister. "Of course."

"The scheming jade," Karl muttered angrily beneath his breath – followed by a brief glance from side to side to check that no one had heard him.

Within the warren of gold doors and mirrored corridors at court lay a cloistered world of conspiracy and scandal. Courtiers politely hated one another. Women smiled with their eyes while they were sneering behind their silk fans. Secrets hopped from room to room like the pox, and for those unfamiliar with such a world, navigating around the maelstrom of deceit was a dangerous and daring feat. But Irina had been born into it, for her, Vienna was home and she understood her world as only a native could. Although being the best friend of royalty did help somewhat.

"Didn't Amalia look handsome as a man?" she whispered, watching Karl's eyes soften at the mention of her best friend's name.

"...Yes," he replied. "Yes, she did."

Irina rolled her eyes as she managed a sip of punch. "It is a shame there've been none of _those_ sorts of parties this year," she said.

"Well, without your little sledging accident I imagine there'd have been no laughter at all," Karl replied.

"It's been a gloomy year."

And so it had. For a year, a dark cloud had hung over the palace, the court constantly in and out of mourning clothes. Smallpox had moved into the royal apartments and – in a very short space of time – had picked off the royal family one by one, killing two archduchesses and disfiguring another. Even the Empress fell ill but miraculously pulled through enough to peruse and sign state papers whilst being propped up by pillows. She never rested for very long when there were alliances and marriages to consider, and the whole affair had required something of a reshuffle. Three of the Empress' unmarried daughters had thankfully been spared their lives _and_ their looks, and with them there was the chance of securing three alliances for the Empire; to Naples, Parma – and perhaps most importantly of all – to France.

"The latest _I've_ heard is that Charlotte's to marry the King of Naples," Karl said.

Irina huffed. "How convenient. Though, I suppose as far as the King of Naples is concerned one Archduchess is as good as the next," she shrugged. "...Poor Charlotte, she's not going to like that – by all accounts he's famously ugly."

"And the little one, Antoine, I hear is off to France," Karl continued downing the remainder of his drink and handing the empty glass to a passing footman.

Irina gaped at him. "No? Do you think so?"

"Why else do you suppose the French ambassador chose to prowl Vienna and not Paris this winter?" Karl replied. He gestured to a middle aged, well dressed gentleman hovering in the corner of the ballroom.

Irina shook her head disapprovingly. "Alliances with the French _never_ end well."

"...And what about you, Irina?" Karl asked.

"What about me?"

"Do you see yourself planning a stroll to the altar this year?"

Irina shrugged. "You make it sound as if I actually have a say in the matter," she said. "It's up to my father. He can't hold on to me forever – the empress will make sure of that."

"Yes, but he's a decent, reasonable sort of a man; I'm sure he'd let you marry whoever you wanted," he said.

Irina raised an eyebrow. "You must be joking. If it was up to me Karl, I wouldn't marry at all," she said with a sigh. "But since I have no choice, I shall marry a _very_ wealthy, elderly and impotent Count – and then spend my days hunting, attending the opera and reading and waiting patiently for the day that he snuffs it and leaves me my liberty, a fabulous fortune, and a castle to do with as I please."

"...And where does _love_ fit in to your grand scheme? Hm?" Karl asked.

Irina tapped her fan against her chin. "Love? That only exists in opera, and I tend to favour the tragic ones where the heroines all die in the end."

Karl rolled his eyes. "You're a cynical sot, you know that?"

She wrinkled her freckled nose and smirked.

But inwardly she sighed. She didn't mean to ridicule love – only, it was just something she'd learnt to not expect. She'd seen far too many women fall prey to their fleeting passions and had both their hearts _and_ reputations savaged. No, Irina refused to relinquish her whole self without the promise of stability. Of course, that didn't mean that she couldn't _appreciate_ the flames of desire from time to time or enjoy their warmth – she was just very careful not to become singed in the process. The only man she'd ever kissed was a masked stranger in a gaming house on the Violet Tuesday before her nineteenth birthday – a foolish, childish adventure she'd tried very hard to forget. Four years later, however, and she could still feel his lips against hers. She held on tight to memory, knowing it might be her only experience of passion. Thank God she'd been wearing a mask herself and hadn't been recognised.

Her reverie was broken when the Empress' sixth daughter appeared on the staircase, the emerald skirts of her gown flopping behind her onto each step like the foliage of a willow. She descended slowly, her long jewelled fingers caressing the stone banister as her eyes searched the crowded room below.

Irina smiled as she nudged Karl and whispered, "There's Amalia," deliberately raising her fan above the throng to attract her friend's attention.

Amalia studied the fan for a moment – pressing her fingers to her lips and narrowing her eyes as she considered its owner. When her eyes focused, she smiled and hurried down the rest of the staircase, holding her skirts in one hand and holding up her whipped blonde curls with the other. It was easy to cross a room quickly when everyone bowed out of your way.

She hurried over with her arms extended. "_There's_ my obscene snow angel!" she cheered, the diamond encrusted fan Irina had given her for Christmas swinging from her wrist. "How's your back?"

Irina stooped and offered the short curtsey required in the presence of royalty, her skirts crumpling against the marble floor. "Bruised, your highness," she replied grumpily as she rose.

Amalia bit down on a little laugh. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't laugh!" she apologised, her blue eyes flashing flirtatiously at Karl. "But I just can't seem to get the image of you disappearing over the back of the sleigh out of my head! I almost split my stays laughing!"

"Yes, well! Thanks to the engravers at The Chronicle I don't think any of us will," Irina snipped, but Amalia's attention had already been stolen away.

"Your highness," Karl said as he greeted her, bowing.

"Prince Karl," Amalia said, offering him her hand. "Enjoying yourself?"

He took her hand and brushed his thumb across her knuckles. "No," he replied. "I confess I've found the celebrations so far this evening a little... lacking."

Amalia frowned. "Oh?"

He grinned as he kissed her hand. "...Though I do sense my spirits _lifting_ somewhat in your presence..." he added; his eyes dark with desire.

Irina groaned. "Oh, _God_."

But Amalia lapped it up, her rouged cheeks dimpling. She slipped her hand from his grasp and gazed at him longingly. Had they been in private perhaps their flirtatious banter could have continued, but in public – when surrounded by the sharp and suspicious eyes of the court – they staged a well-rehearsed performance. To any gossip worth her diamonds, the love affair was well known, but to preserve Amalia's reputation and to avoid a scolding from the Empress, they were discreet.

Aware of one of the Empress's ministers hovering close by, Irina loudly cleared her throat and interrupted dutifully. "Uh, Karl? Didn't you mention something about an important card game? A debt to be settled?" she suggested innocently.

Spell broken, Karl remembered himself and tore his gaze away.

"...Something about a thousand ducats?"

He scratched his head and glanced apologetically at Amalia. "Ah, yes – of course," he stuttered. "Your brother promised me a chance to win back what I lost to him during a game of faro last week... though I fear that it's simply a ruse on his part to take more of my money."

Amalia laughed. "Oh, I know! I refuse to play him at cards," she said. "He grumbles when he loses and when he wins, he takes every last coin."

Karl turned to Irina. "Which reminds me," he said. "He said that he wants another go at the stag in Lainzer – so we've organised a little shooting party for next Friday. As long as the weather holds out, of course. Interested?"

Irina fluttered her fan excitedly. "Absolutely!" she replied eagerly.

"Then, if you'll excuse me; I'll leave you ladies to your gossip."

Smiling, he gave a short bow then strolled away with his hands clasped behind his back – but not before he'd said an intimate 'farewell for now' to Amalia. He brushed up against her – so closely that he disturbed her gown – and whispered something into her ear that made her bite her lip.

When he disappeared into the crowd Irina swept urgently towards her friend – taking her arm and linking it with her own. "...What was _that_ about?"

Amalia shook her head, lifted her chin and took a breath – as if emerging from a hot room into cold, pelting rain. Her diamond earrings shuddered. "You know, I don't understand how you can enjoy such a barbaric sport."

Irina raised her eyebrows. "If we're talking about me having to watch you and Karl all the time then yes, it is a barbaric sport and I don't much enjoy it."

Amalia shook her head. "I meant _hunting_, Rini," she said, stealing Irina's glass of punch and taking a swig. "Chasing poor animals around on horseback and shooting them for sport."

"Not just for sport – for lunch, for fashion," Irina replied, brushing a hand down the fox fur lining her bodice.

"It's not just the brutality of it that I can't stand, I just don't see how it's enjoyable _physically_," she complained, gesticulating wildly with her fan. "All that bounding about on horseback in the cold weather – don't you get saddle sore?"

Irina chuckled. "Sometimes."

"Well, what about all that cold air and sunlight? It's ruining your complexion, you know," Amalia warned, narrowing her eyes at the tiny brown sunspots peeping through the powder over Irina's nose. "Freckles are the marks of poverty," she declared as she finished off the punch and handed the empty glass to a passing footman. "Do you _want_ to look like you've been working in a field?"

"It's exciting," Irina replied with a happy little shrug. "There's nothing quite like the chase. Besides, I never hear you complain about Karl enjoying it. In fact, I recall you mentioning that Karl looked rather heroic seated on his mount and dressed for the hunt."

Amalia blushed. "That's _different_! Karl's a man," she protested. "It's in their nature to course and kill. Women's hands weren't made to handle weaponry."

"Oh, I don't know about _that_," Irina winked.

"Irina!" she scolded – but couldn't seem to stifle the smirk spreading across her face. "You're even starting to speak like a man! Not to mention all those scientific books you insist on squirreling away. It's... _odd_, and unrefined."

Irina stopped. "Don't you go slapping _my_ wrist!" she complained, "What about you carrying on with Karl? All that whispering and winking, it's–"

Amalia narrowed her eyes. "I thought you didn't like being my chaperone?"

"I _don't_," Irina insisted. "But needs must when your–"

"–When my reputation is at stake. _I know_."

Irina tutted. "Will you let me finish?" she asked. "I was about to say your heart. Your _heart_ is what's at stake. I could care less about your reputation, let your mother worry about that; reputations can be _mended_. Hearts? They're a little bit trickier."

Amalia didn't reply. She carefully studied the pastoral idyll painted on the back of her fan. Milkmaids flirting with farm hands.

Irina chose her next words carefully. "...You _know_ it can't last, Mal," she told her friend. "Soon enough, your mother's going to arrange a marriage for you, and no matter how much you wish for it, it's _not_ going to be Karl. She's made her opinion on the match quite clear."

Amalia gave a sad, slow little nod. "I know. I _know_," she replied, releasing a long breath. "But Christine was allowed to marry for love. I don't see why I can't do the same. It's so unfair!"

Feeling the mood begin to darken, Irina changed the subject to talk of happier things. They organised their next trip to the opera and whispered about a masked visit to the markets along the Kärntner Straße. They were in the middle of arguing whether the Countess of Hohenheim's hair was her own or a wig, when Amalia noticed a middle-aged gentleman hurrying past her. Above the sagging, wrinkled skin of his cheeks and between the curls of a matted grey periwig, his eyes were wide and frantic as he hurried through the crowd. He popped up between couples and peered around shoulders – each time apologising deeply twice, even three times over for having upset their conversation.

Clearly sensing that without her help he'd be searching all night, Amalia spoke up. "Oh, look here's your father," she said. "Herr Brunswick!" she shouted, waving her arm.

The Duke of Brunswick stumbled towards them, clutching the breast of his expensive embroidered French waistcoat.

Irina blinked. "Papa?"

He took her hand firmly. "I've been searching everywhere for you," he panted in his otherwise eloquent statesman-esque baritone. "I've just come from the Empress; I've exciting news."

Irina looked confused. "What are you talking about, papa?"

"I'll leave you to your news," Amalia said, rushing away to reconvene with Karl in some dark corner no doubt.

Suddenly the orchestra surged. Trumpets blared a fanfare that left the crystals in each ceiling chandelier shaking and brought all conversation to a halt. All eyes turned to the summit of the grand staircase, and to the Empress who had finally appeared.

She stood up there much like the austere black eagle that adorned the Habsburg family coat of arms. But instead of feathers, her vast black plumage was made up of layers and layers of taffeta and lace, and just as eagle scans for prey, nothing escaped her attentive grey gaze. In truth, she looked far more like a well-fed mother hen than an eagle, but what she lacked in mobility she made up for in mind.

The entire room dropped to its knees as she made her way down the staircase and across the floor, a footman saluting her arrival as she went.

"Her Imperial Royal Highness, by the grace of God, Empress of the Romans, King of Hungary... of Bohemia, of Dalmatia, of Croatia, of Slavonia, of Galicia," he paused to take a quick breath. "Archduchess of Austria, Duchess of Burgundy, of Styria, of Carinthia and Carniola. Grand Princess of Transylvania, Margrave of Moravia. Duchess of Brabant, of Limburg, of Luxemburg, of–"

Having reached her throne at the head of the hall draped in black and gold, the Empress rolled her eyes and interrupted. "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" she snapped, waving her gloved hand dismissively. "That'll do, that'll do. We're all aware that our Empire is as vast as I am – it's no secret."

Irina smirked at the marble floor as she curtseyed. Despite the amount of time Amalia spent complaining about her mother, Irina absolutely _adored_ her.

The Empress took a short, fortifying breath – like a coloratura soprano before an aria – and then addressed her court. "I have some announcements."

Irina's father caught her hand and squeezed it decisively.

"The death of Archduchess Josepha in October was a bitter blow felt not only by myself and my other children – she was a great intermediary and peacemaker in our rather large family – but it was a blow also to his royal majesty, the King of Naples who had intended to take Josepha as his bride," the Empress continued. "His majesty was distressed by her sudden death but unwilling to put the alliance in jeopardy and having heard so much about Archduchess Charlotte's great character and beauty has agreed to accept her as a replacement bride."

Irina shrugged her lips. No woman wanted to be another's replacement, but where alliances were concerned, one woman was as good as the next.

When the clapping ebbed, the Empress went on. "I have also as of today completed my negotiations with the Duchy of Parma–"

Irina held her breath and glanced at Amalia, who seemed to be doing the very same.

"–And it has been decided that the young Duke will happily take our daughter, Archduchess Amalia, as his wife, in a rather _exciting_ new alliance."

Amalia crumbled and within moments had shoved her way out of the Grand Ballroom, unable to contain the flood of tears threatening to burst from her like a fountain. She passed Karl on her way through a side door, standing beside a window with his equally dashing younger brother. He was clearly desperate to follow her, but his brother stopped him by placing a firm hand on his shoulder and shaking his head.

"The Governor of Transylvania – a rather mysterious corner of our empire much divided and eager for reform – rather tragically passed away last month and so I have been forced to make arrangements for another to take up his position in Hermannstadt," the Empress said. "I have chosen not only a close and trusted confident of mine, but a true man of Habsburg blood. My dear cousin and friend, Joseph, our own Duke of Brunswick will take up the position later this year, taking his beautiful daughter – The Little Duchess – along with him."

Dense applause followed as it had with every other announcement. Irina saw grinning faces turning towards her, eager and congratulatory, but she simply stood wide eyed and in silence, as if living a dream, jostling like a rag doll when her father grabbed her furred shoulders and shook them excitedly.

"Isn't it wonderful, Irina?"

Irina frowned as she felt the earth move beneath her, her whole world having been suddenly shifted off course.


	2. Two

_ **Vienna, September 1769** _

Irina folded Amalia's letter, pinching her fingertips neatly along the crease until the paper looked as smooth and as crisp as if it hadn't even been opened. She couldn't help but smile at the clumsy lettering near the wax seal; her best friend's familiar handwriting and blotched ink had been so comforting to see. Amalia had always written like a cat, scratching at the paper with her quill until the ink coated her paws; Irina had read the letter at least seven times over just to make sure she hadn't missed a single word, but by the eighth reading, the excitement she'd felt when she first broke the wax seal had all but drained away - replaced by deep mourning for her dear friend and their old life.

She lowered the paper and gazed out of the window.

The palace gardens had begun to wither their way into autumn; the long avenues of elms tarnishing from green to gold, and the smell of summer flowers replaced by the smoke from smouldering pyres of fallen leaves. Summer had silently slipped away when no one was looking.

To Irina it seemed like only yesterday when she'd attended that Walpurgisnacht masque with Amalia. They'd both dressed in pale satin, worn masks and spring blossoms in their hair; danced and gambled and leapt over candles to say farewell to the darkness and greet the summer. Their _last_ summer. They'd vowed to make the most of it; to not waste a single moment or miss a single party. They'd known that time was short, but still it had passed by in a colourful blur and before long, it was time for Amalia to leave Austria for her new home and her new life as the Duchess of Parma. Karl had left Vienna for his country seat soon after; despite Irina's pleas for him to stay and keep her company, he'd refused, saying he couldn't bear to stay.

And so, Irina was left to spend the final of summer alone in her rooms mourning the loss of her closest friends and contemplating her own fast approaching departure.

"Madam?"

Glancing over her shoulder, Irina turned to find one of her father's sturdy-looking footmen standing with a small moleskin coffer cradled between his gloved hands.

"Is _this_ to be taken with you?" he asked.

Irina puzzled over the plain looking box, "…Actually, I'm not even sure what it is."

She flicked the brass clasp and peered inside to find the eyeglass of her microscope looking back at her. As soon as she'd read about them, she'd sent a footman to procure her one. She'd almost gone cross-eyed peering through the lens to see leaves, insects and her jewellery up close and the tiny little cells they were made of.

Irina carefully closed the lid. "Yes, most definitely," she said. "Oh, and please, be _very_ delicate with it."

"Of course, madam."

As she nervously watched him stumble over chests and side-step the various caskets, boxes and crates on his way to the door, Irina couldn't help the sigh that escaped her lips; her entire apartment was in a state of demolition.

Her wardrobe – both winter _and_ summer, formal and informal – was lounging across her sofa and chaise waiting to be packed away, like the ghostly ladies taking tea. Hats, shoes, furs and jewellery were all being carefully packed into deep chests by maids rushing back and forth between the bedroom and closet. Portraits had been brought down from the walls and been wrapped in paper and string, whilst one footman balanced cautiously on a ladder as he packed away stodgy volumes stacked on the shelves of Irina's personal library.

Irina folded her arms and stared at the chaos around her.

It was unsettling and a little upsetting to think that she wouldn't sleep in her bed again or trace the sunrise across the ceiling in the mornings. She'd never sprawl on her chaise on a Sunday morning devouring the latest issue of The Chronicle over tea and tobacco, and she couldn't help wondering with some bitterness who would be sitting in her seat at the opera from now on.

Did the people of Hermannstadt even _know_ what opera was? she wondered as her father squeezed through the doors. He was followed closely by his hounds, Scapino and Folie, who very nearly knocked over a portrait of the Duchess - Irina's late mother - as they barged their way into the room. Scapino had been named by her father after one of the clowns from the commedia dell'arte because of his dark muzzle and skittish behaviour, whilst Irina had named Folie after _Madness_, a character from her favourite French Opera. A name she fully lived up to in every way.

The Duke managed to catch the gilt frame with the tip of his cane before it clattered flat on the floor. "Apologies, my love!" he said as he carefully prodded the frame back into place and took a moment to admire his wife's pale skin, dark curls and the string of gleaming black pearls around her long neck. "What dunderwhelp put this against the door of all places?!"

Irina smiled as Folie padded towards her – her black, whip-like tail snapping from side to side. She reached down and smoothed her hand over the glossy fur of the dog's forehead and squeezed her floppy ears. Folie closed her amber eyes and panted.

The Duke smiled.

"Good morning," Irina scoffed at him, before turning her head and peering through the window.

"You're not _still_ sulking, are you?" the Duke asked as he slumped into an empty chair beside the fireplace with Scapino sprawling at his feet.

"I never sulk!" Irina snapped, tearing away from the window with a swish of undressed brown curls. "…_much_."

The Duke chuckled. "Your mother never sulked much either."

Irina glanced at her mother's portrait, then scoffed. She folded her arms and fidgeted on her feet; staring out of the window she'd peered through every day since she'd learnt to lean up on tiny toes, grasp the sill with little hands and glimpse the sky. She was so desperate to memorise the view from it; she was all too aware that she'd never see the gardens again, or the rooftops of Vienna, and how they looked when they were covered in snow.

The Duke nestled his hands on the top of his cane and sighed. "Come on," he urged. "Tell your old papa what troubles you."

Irina exhaled loudly. "I had another letter from Amalia," she said, holding it up.

"Ah," the Duke replied. "How is she? How is she finding Parma? And her husband?"

"Bored, hot and dull," Irina replied as she dragged her feet across the room and fell into the empty chair opposite her father.

He nodded along. "I see," he said, watching as Folie slid onto her belly and curled her body around Scapino's. "So naturally you assume that our own departure will end in a similarly miserable manner."

"Papa, you _said_ you were going to retire from the council – you're far too old for a posting! Especially one so far away," Irina complained. "Think of your health."

The Duke growled. "Pish! I'm perfectly well and able," he insisted, but winced in pain as he tried to rearrange himself in the chair. "…And I'm not _that_ old."

"_Father_," Irina scolded, watching the way his face wrinkled in pain.

He caught her look and shook his head. "Oh, I'm fine – I'm _fine_!" he grouched. "Bit of indigestion, that's all."

"What about that tonic I gave you?" she asked. "Have you been drinking it?"

"Every day," he told her with a nod. He smiled, "Not to worry, Liebling. Bit of mountain air and a fresh purpose and I'll be fighting fit in no time!"

Irina arched an eyebrow. "Well, can you blame me for worrying? All the men who've been posted there barely last a year without either going mad or dying," she asked, twirling the blue satin ties of her dressing gown around her fingers. "I really don't like the stories I've heard about this place. Aside from the all the _old_ horror stories, from what I hear it's more trouble than it's worth; the peasants and serfs are starved and insane, and the Hungarians would rather go it alone and govern it themselves–"

The Duke groaned. "Irina, really now," he said, with some impatience. "I cannot keep having this same conversation! I won't let the Empress down. We're leaving for Hermannstadt in _two days_. We're going. It's done."

Irina narrowed her dark eyes at him. She wanted to tell him that he should leave her behind, allow the Empress to find her good match, because there would be absolutely no prospects for her in Transylvania. That much was certain. But she couldn't; he'd never admit it, but her father needed her too much.

The Duke leant across and touched her cold hand. "…Give Hermannstadt a chance. You'll like it there. I _know_ it," he told her, but from the weary look in his eye didn't seem to believe it himself. "And besides, do you really want to linger on here in Vienna? You haven't been happy since her highness left."

Irina reluctantly placed her hand over his, her tapered fingers tapping his short, wrinkled ones. "I _know_. But–"

"Also, I'm told that the previous Governor was quite the enthusiastic hunter until his accident," the Duke interrupted. "And from what I hear he's left behind a well-stocked forest."

Irina's eyes widened. "…Really?"

The Duke winked and tapped her hand. "_Really_," he said, groaning as he heaved himself up and out of the easy chair. "They hunt bears and wolves, I'm told. Something to look forward to, perhaps? I know old Folie here has missed being out and about on the chase with you," he added as he reached down and gave Folie's head a pat.

The dog licked her lips and yawned.

Irina watched as her father crossed the room, poking boxes with his cane as he went. She hadn't been hunting since Karl left. Her silver sporting pistols and bullets had remained in their case, unused – although she had taken them out from time to time, just to touch them and feel their weight in her hand. She liked to sit in her chair and aim them at the spiders who hung their webs in the moulding.

But, "Why such a rush to leave?" she went on, dropping her chin onto her fist.

"The snow, Liebling," the Duke replied. "If we tarry any longer then our passage through the mountains will become treacherous, or worse – completely blocked."

"…Oh," Irina replied, silently begging the sky for as much snow as it could muster as the Duke knocked the tip of his cane against a chest full of books.

"Oh, now really, you're not insisting we bring these dust collectors with us, are you?" he complained.

Irina frowned. "You're already depriving me of my home, don't even bother trying to deprive me of my literature."

The Duke leaned over and picked up one of the smaller books. "_Literature_?" he mumbled, holding the book at arm's length and pulling a face as he tried to make sense of the annotated sketches and engravings inside it. "…It's just pictures, mostly."

Irina huffed. "_Plates_," she corrected. "And they're not all like that."

The Duke tilted the book back and forth, round and about, upside and downside. "…I can't even – what the devil this supposed to even be?"

Irina sprung from her chair and appeared beside him, peering down over his shoulder. She rolled her eyes and spun the book around. "_That_," she said, tapping the page "is a plate showing a baby within the womb, full term. This book's all about midwifery, papa."

The Duke wrinkled his nose. "Grotesque," he said, handing her the book.

Irina snatched it and brushed her fingers across the page. "…It's beautiful," she said, gazing down at the delicately drawn page. "…Rymsdyk's detail in his engravings just blows me away. It's fascinating." She snapped the book shut and put it back in the trunk with all the rest. "Blood is what I find the most fascinating, though. It sustains us all and yet we have absolutely no idea what it is or what it's made from – save for microscopic… I don't know, _rose_ petals."

The Duke shook his head, "Not the sort of thing young ladies should be looking at, I fancy." He prodded the footman on the ladder with his cane, "You up there, wouldn't you agree?"

The footman wobbled and gripped the ladder tightly. "…Not my place to say so, my lord," he replied. "But, then, I wouldn't have thought that blood and bodily functions to be of interest to proper, sensitive-minded young ladies such as your daughter."

Irina frowned. "This _grotesque_ sort of thing is saving lives," she insisted. "People slicing and studying the human body are helping us understand it's ailments better and _cure_ them. Perhaps if books like that one had been written sooner, then mama wouldn't have died. If the Empress had shown an interest in inoculation like the Tsarina of Russia has then perhaps Amalia's sister wouldn't have died and she wouldn't be stuck in Parma now."

The room suddenly fell very, _very_ silent. The Duke stared limply at the clutter around him. The footman wobbled around on the ladder, the joints creaking.

Irina sighed. "…Oh, papa," she whispered. She went over to him and wrapped her hands around his shoulders. 'I didn't mean to–"

"You're a peculiar one, aren't you?" The Duke replied. "Most ladies your age like to bury their noses in nonsense novels about pirates and highwaymen."

Irina kissed his cheek. "Oh, I enjoy reading those too," she replied with a wink - even though a handful of them had had their pages ripped out and replaced with some indecent French imports that had been smuggled in. "The medical books are just a distraction."

Distraction was an understatement; they were her _obsession_. She never seemed satisfied with what she learned from them; she always needed to know more.

When Irina noticed the footman handling an old, tattered volume with a red cover, she stopped him. "Oh, not that one," she said, taking it from him.

"I beg your pardon, madam," he said, climbing back up the ladder.

Irina smiled. "Oh, that's alright, it just that it doesn't belong to me - I wouldn't want it to get mixed up with my books," she said, flicking through the yellowing pages. "I need to return it before we leave."

"What is it?" the Duke asked.

"_A Discourse on the Existence of Ghosts_," she replied, reading the words along the cracked spine. "Van Swieten gave it to me."

"The Empress's physician?" the Duke snorted. "Why the devil's _he_ lending you books?'

"Because I asked him," Irina replied. "I wanted to know more about the people you're going to be governing, papa."

The Duke smiled, "Oh," he said, happy that she seemed to at least be taking an interest.

"This book refutes claims by peasants that the dead have been rising from their graves in some wild corners of the empire by explaining – in simple, scientific terms – how the body behaves in the grave after death – how corpses can sometimes look plump and well-fed. _Not_ because of vampiric tendencies, but because of the gases that are released during decomposition. I mean, did you know that hair and fingernails sometimes carry on growing after death? It's just bizarre... and fascinating!"

The Duke grimaced. "Oh, Irina, _really_," he grumbled, holding his belly.

Even the footman looked queasy.

"It's called _Magia Posthuma_ – or, posthumous magic. This is the kind of thing the peasants in Transylvania believe in, papa. They _murder_ each other over it – they dig up graves and burn castles down because of their fear of vampires and witches. I just thought I better swot up, since we _are_ moving there," she said, carrying the book over to her writing desk.

She took out a piece of parchment from one of the many drawers and pigeon holes, and picked up her quill. She scribbled a quick note thanking the physician for his kindness in indulging her curiosity, then folded it and placed it between the cover and title page of the book.

"Lena, if I forget, please make sure Herr Swieten's book finds its way back to him," she told the maid who was busy packing away her clothes.

The maid nodded. "Yes, madam."

The Duke leaned on his cane. "Right, I best be off," he said, heading towards the door. "I have my last meeting with the Empress."

He called out to the dogs, who came bounding from their place by the fire – almost knocking the footman to the floor in the process. Folie turned back though, trotting over to Irina instead.

Irina lovingly patted and scratched the dog's large head and muzzle.

The Duke tutted. "She's more _your_ dog than mine," he complained. "Aren't you, Folie? Mad women tend to stick together it seems."

Folie sat down beside Irina and leaned against her legs.

The Duke waved a hand. "Have it your way then, you silly old thing!" he grumbled as he left.

"I shall see you tomorrow papa," Irina said as she squatted down to hug Folie, massaging the fur across her chest with her fingertips. "And don't forget to drink your tonic!"

The Duke waved a hand. "Yes, yes, yes!" he moaned, the sound of his cane beating the floorboards as he left – along with the footman, struggling with the trunk full of books.

Irina went over to close the large white doors and then made her way back to the window. Outside, the Duchess of Mecklenburg was enjoying a stroll through the gardens and a gossip with her close friend, the Countess of Hohenheim. Both were dressed to brave the Autumn chill, wrapped in fur stoles and long velvet underskirts. Unfortunately, the ladies hadn't anticipated the strong Autumn breeze; it suddenly roared through the trees, knocked off the Duchess's fur trimmed hat and hoisted the Countess's skirt like a sail. Both ladies shrieked.

Irina chuckled as she watched poor Duchess chasing after her hat.

Perhaps it _was_ about time for a change of scenery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted some historical/language notes over on the FanFiction.net copy of this chapter - just holler at me if there's anything unfamiliar or something you'd like to know. :-)


	3. Three

_ **Hermannstadt, All Hallows Eve 1769** _

Irina groaned and rolled her eyes behind her black mask as the small rabble of musicians beside her _(including an elderly violinist with an unfortunate flinch and a severe lack of rhythm)_ butchered yet another Bach concerto. With each double sharp and screech, she winced and wondered what sins she'd committed in her life to deserve being carted off to such a miserable backwater.

As expected, Hermannstadt was _not_ Vienna. Surrounded by dense pine forests and tucked within a spine of snow-capped mountains, the town was more medieval than modern; crumbling defenses and towers that had once stood strong against the invading Turks, penned in a jumble of rustic, pastel buildings with sloping terracotta rooftops and steeples, and narrow windows in their eaves that looked like eyes peering out. The streets were a muddy warren within a hedge maze of stale, stone walls; passages and alleyways linked the spacious upper part of town with the poor and cramped lower parts, whilst gates and archways offered passage from one section to the next. As their carriage had passed through the main gate, Irina had felt almost as though she were entering a castle - destined to be forever locked in a tower.

She soon found that she may as well have been; the same freedoms she'd had in Vienna were all at once taken away. The Duke didn't like the idea of her venturing out alone in such an unfamiliar place – not yet, at least – and so Irina imprisoned herself in her own room. The Governor's Palace was in the upper part of the town – on the corner of the main square where a daily market was held – and although it was comfortable and spacious enough, it was hardly the palace it claimed to be. Irina spent her days reading her books and writing letters to old friends back in Vienna and to Amalia in Parma, complaining about the draughty, dull house, the lack of servants and how she desperately missed the opera. Apparently, Herr Gluck had composed an opera to celebrate Amalia's wedding and oh how she longed to hear it! "Tell me _everything_, sparing no details," she'd begged in writing.

She sat in the window - day in and day out - wrapped in the fur counterpane from her bed, quietly smoking tobacco with a book open in her lap and Folie at her feet. She looked up occasionally to peer out of the window at people arguing in the market below, and to gaze longingly at the forests and snow-capped Carpathians in the distance - puzzling over the silhouette of a mysterious old castle decaying in the foothills.

Irina saw very little of her father. He'd spend his mornings writing letters and the afternoons taking his carriage around town and the surrounding provinces to meet with local officials and nobles. When they met for dinner every evening, she resisted the urge to bombard him with questions, instead choosing to be sour with him and drag her fork about the plate in silence.

"I'd love let you out and explore, Liebling," her father apologised, "but, you see, there's been a string of women attacked on the streets here."

Irina feigned disinterest.

"The town's hysterical over it," he complained. "They're all panicking about vampires."

She sighed as she tossed a little meat from her plate over to Folie, lounging on the floorboards beside her. When Scapino gruffed in outrage, she threw him a piece too. "…Well, I did warn you that they're all cracked here."

She only perked up when her father informed her that there was going to be a ball to celebrate their arrival. It would be a chance to meet Transylvanian society and to dance and hear music. _Music_! And since it was planned for All Hallows Eve, he'd decided that they might as well make it a masquerade ball.

Irina instantly cheered up. She couldn't wait for the music, the food and a little conversation, and she couldn't seem to decide whether pearls or diamonds would look better with that red, satin sack-back she was planning on wearing. She worried about looking too extravagant compared to everyone else, but at the same time panicked about looking too plain, too _simple_ – not nearly glamorous enough for the daughter of the Duke of Brunswick! At least it kept her from thinking mournful thoughts of Vienna and the home and friends she'd left behind.

But, when All Hallows Eve and the masquerade ball eventually did arrive, Irina's excitement quickly fizzled away. The candles were lit, the wine uncorked, the music began to play and all the guests had arrived, and yet, standing there – alone at the edge of the room – she suddenly decided that she'd much rather swap her gown for her dressing gown, retreat to her room and bury her freckled nose in a book instead.

She knew absolutely no one, and they didn't seem to want to get to know her. The guests clutched together like hens – from the uniformed officers enjoying a slightly raucous drinking game in the corner, to the Hungarian noblemen flirting with merchants' daughters – all of them dressed in imported silks with stomachers encrusted with diamonds made of paste. Even her father seemed to have found a place; he was surrounded by local officials, merchants and men of money, all eager for a piece of the new regime.

But no one seemed to want a piece of his daughter. To the gentlemen she was a Duchess – the new Governor's daughter – and therefore completely out of bounds. And to the ladies? Well, her reputation seemed to have arrived ahead of her; they seemed to have already made up their minds and gossiped behind their masks, picking her apart like vultures.

"Is _that_ what they like to wear in Vienna these days?" said one lady, raising an eyebrow.

"Cloth of scarlet – such a _daring_ shade. Only harlots venture so bold!" an older woman added, face powder disappearing into the wrinkles and cracks across her cheeks and forehead.

"She's _very_ short, isn't she?"

"Imagine! I was expecting her to be drowning in diamonds!" a much younger lady said. Her voice was tinged with disappointment, but the smug grin she sported with it said otherwise. "The Empress _is_ her Godmother after all…"

Irina scoffed. Provincials, what did _they_ know? she thought to herself as she smoothed her fingers across her embroidered bodice. And to think that she'd chosen to dress plainly so she wouldn't risk offending anyone! She'd pinned her brown curls back and left them unpowdered and had chosen to wear a simple black ribbon around her neck over the more extravagant diamond pieces rattling around in her jewellery box. Clearly, she shouldn't have bothered. She might as well have turned up in just her stays and stockings and _really_ given them something to snap about.

"My lady?"

Irina glanced expectantly at the footman who had appeared beside her with a tray full of drinks.

"Something to dr–"

She didn't allow him to finish; she snatched a glass and immediately downed it. "Prost."

The footman raised his eyebrows.

"…Oh, and don't stray too far, will you?" she told him as he walked away.

Irina strolled awkwardly around the room. The servants had clearly tried hard to decorate it and make it rival the Imperial Palace, but there was little use in dressing a dog up in diamonds - would still be a dog after all - and the room was far more rustic than regal. The lack of mirrors made the room feel small and dark and the wooden panelling was like something out of an old castle. There were even wooden beams straddling the ceiling, hoisting an embarrassingly medieval-looking iron chandelier. One of the walls had a faded forest-themed mural of stag frolicking between trees and boars snuffling through an undergrowth of wildflowers; Irina chose to remain stuck to it – hoping to vanish among the trees.

There were two tables of feast-food – one for the guests, and one for dearly departed guests. Plates of uneaten food for spirits and souls that happened to stop by – something to appease them from making trouble. All Hallows Eve was a day for remembering the dead, and it was something the people of Hermannstadt clearly took _very_ seriously. Irina had watched them from her window earlier that day, coming and going from the churchyard next door – lighting candles, leaving sweets and laying wreaths of yellow leaves and cloves of garlic near each headstone. She couldn't understand the town's strange fascination with the undead, and with garlic. It seemed to be _everywhere_; hanging above doorways, over archways, handfuls of cloves stinking out the pockets of the servants – even now as her thoughts raced there was a large string of the stuff hanging above the ballroom door.

Irina rolled her eyes and pined quietly for the Imperial Palace.

"Honestly! Who on earth does she think she is?" one of the vultures suddenly hissed, diverting her attention.

"If it's a harlot she's playing, she's _certainly_ come dressed the part," whispered another.

Irina scowled. _Harlot! How dare they!?_

"Anymore diamonds and she'd have to _crawl_ her way across the room," the woman continued.

"Crawl! I'm not sure she could sink any lower!"

The woman laughed, "Well, she'd certainly sink to the bottom of the river if she tripped and fell into it."

"Here's hoping!"

Irina blinked over the rim of her glass. She wasn't wearing diamonds; she suddenly realised – and with some relief – that the women _must_ be talking about someone else. She followed their sour gazes across to the other side of the room, where a honey-haired woman wearing a scandalously low-cut silver gown and half a chandelier around her neck had just walked in.

"Do you know, I was speaking with Baroness Dinescu yesterday afternoon," another vulture squawked, "And _she_ told me that one of her footmen is on _very_ familiar terms – if you understand my meaning – with a chambermaid in the service of Herr Carmitru... and _she_ told her that she saw a man sneaking out of Camelia's bed chamber in the early hours of Thursday morning. And - I might add - it _wasn't_ her husband."

The entire group gasped and began flapping their fans frantically.

Irina's eyebrows bounced. She watched the woman who had attracted such resentment slowly cross the room, men's eyes following her as she went. There was something incredibly alluring about her; something about the way she smiled with her almond-shaped blue eyes, and the way she held herself as she sauntered confidently across the room.

Irina was trying to decide whether she felt sorry for her or hated her when the young woman suddenly caught her staring and started walking towards her.

"Oh! You must be our new Governor's daughter! Welcome, Duchess!" she purred excitedly as she approached, lowering her mask. She dropped into an elegant curtsey. "I'm Fraulein Carmitru – _Carmelia_. It's so lovely to finally meet you."

Irina hesitated for a moment, catching nosy looks from the group of vultures who were clearly waiting and hoping for her to snub the poor woman. If what they said was true then she probably should have, but instead, she smiled and politely bowed her head. "Thank you, fraulein," she said.

Carmelia grinned. "Well, here you are – _finally_!" she said, her blue eyes flashing. "You're all anyone's wanted to talk about for the past few weeks!" She rolled her eyes, "Besides the vampire who's been snacking on serfs, of course."

Irina laughed awkwardly and arched a dark eyebrow as she glanced over Carmelia's shoulder at the women who were glaring at them. "_That_, I think I can believe."

Carmelia tutted, linked her arm with Irina's and gently steered her aside as if they were already firm friends. "Don't you worry about them, Duchess," she whispered, snatching a glass from a passing footman and handing it to Irina. "Sour old fishwives. They're just jealous."

Irina shook her head and waved a hand. "Oh, it's alright; I'm used to it. It's nothing compared to Vienna," she said as she took a steeling swig of wine.

"Well, they gather like witches and concoct these _ridiculous_ stories about me," Carmelia explained, sweeping her hand. "My husband's the mayor, you see. _And_ he's on the town council. Do you know, he came here from Hungary with barely a note to his name and now he owns _all_ the surrounding farmland and most of the serfs – as well as the largest house in town. Well, the second largest – yours is a _smidge_ bigger. Just a smidge though!"

"Oh," Irina replied, remembering the vast snowy fields and farmlands the carriage had passed through on her arrival.

Carmelia's eyes dropped to Irina's gown. "...I do love your gown, by the way," she said, taking a step back to view it fully from hip to hem. "That shade suits you _beautifully_."

"Thank you, I–"

"It's very… _simple_ though," Carmelia went on, smoothing a hand over her own sparkling bodice – embroidered with jewels.

Irina raised her eyebrows.

"Has your maid not unpacked all your manteaux yet?"

It was intended as a stab, so Irina stabbed back. "Actually, my ladies maid chose to stay in Vienna - her mother's getting rather frail, you see - so I've unpacked only my books so far," she replied. "I'm actually quite relieved in a way; some of those gowns are so heavily encrusted with diamonds that they're an absolute backache to wear."

Carmelia's gaze became sharp. "…So," she said. "What do you think of our little town so far?"

Irina pondered her answer carefully, searching for it at the bottom of her glass of wine. "It's very…" _Crazy? Backward? Dull?_ "…_Picturesque_."

Carmelia erupted with laughter, drawing the glances of a group of officers standing nearby - passing glances that turned into covetous glares. "No need to be polite on my account, Duchess. You _are_ allowed to prefer Vienna, you know!" she told her. "In fact, I'd think you mad if you didn't! Hermannstadt _is_ a little stuck in the mud, after all – you know, bound by old ways and superstitions. We hold on tight to the old ways, I'm afraid."

Irina was relieved. "Yes, this certainly isn't Vienna."

Carmelia beamed, "Oh, I'd _love_ to go there someday. You must tell me absolutely _everything _about it!" she begged, snatching Irina's empty glass and shoving it at a passing footman. "What's the opera like? And the Imperial Palace? Oh, it must have been so wonderful to live there - I can only imagine! Is it true that you were close friends with Archduchess Amalia? You must miss her terribly! I hear she's married the Duke of Parma…"

Irina felt as if she'd been hit by a hurricane. "…Yes, but we write to each other often, so it's not quite so–"

Carmelia seized Irina's hand and held it against her bodice. "Don't worry, _I'll_ look after you," she promised.

Irina smiled awkwardly. "…That's very kind of you, Carmel–"

"Melia, _please_," Carmelia insisted. "And I shall call you…" she went on, raising her eyebrows and holding her breath as she waited for Irina to offer up a nickname.

Irina hesitated. Her father called Liebling sometimes, and Amalia had always called her Rini – but it seemed almost like a betrayal to allow someone else to call her that. Not to mention the fact that she barely knew Carmelia; to allow herself to be called anything other than Duchess seemed a little improper.

But, when she didn't respond, Carmelia jumped in and filled the silence. "Oh! I know, I shall call you Sparrow!"

Irina blinked at her. "…Excuse me?"

"Well, because you're so tiny and because of all those darling freckles!" Carmelia explained, pointing at the smattering peering out from the bottom of Irina's mask. "You're like a little speckled bird."

Irina breathed noisily through her nostrils and looked around the room - hoping to spread her wings and flutter as far away from Carmelia as possible; perhaps there was someone else to befriend? "…Since you're the mayor's wife, perhaps you could introduce me to everyone, Carm–"

"_Melia_."

"…Melia," Irina repeated – through her teeth. "I know absolutely no one. You're the only person I've spoken to so far tonight, so perhaps you might–"

Carmelia winked at her. "Why? Someone's caught your eye, have they?" she teased.

Irina's expression fell flat. "No."

"It's alright if someone has. You _do_ realise that you're the biggest catch in Transylvania now, don't you?" Carmelia told her.

"Catch?"

"Come now, don't play coy Sparrow. You're a Duchess of impeccable birth and standing; I'm surprised no one in Vienna snapped you up before you left! Now that you're here, men will be tripping over themselves to put a ring on that bony little finger of yours and cage you."

Irina sent her a look. "Well, they all seem to be very sturdy on their feet at the moment."

Carmelia laughed. "Trust me. Give it time. The men here are positively _starved_ for suitable brides."

Irina glanced down at her bare knuckle and felt a sting. She doubted there was anyone in such a quiet corner of the empire that her father would think worthy of her. There was certainly no one _she_ would deem worthy. "Well I _certainly_ won't be the one to slake their hunger–"

Carmelia narrowed her eyes. "Why?" she practically demanded.

"…Well," Irina began, starting to lose her patience, "because previous daughters of the Duchy of Brunswick have married into _royalty_, no less. My great, great grandmother was Queen of Poland," she explained; she'd been prepared to play the pawn in some diplomatic scheme since she was just a girl. Prepared, but not exactly enthusiastic. "My father wouldn't be interested in pawning me off to some minor princeling; and the Empress _certainly_ wouldn't allow it."

Carmelia's blue eyes became frosty.

Irina looked at her. "Forgive me; I don't mean to sound snobbish, it's just that–"

"Well, you did," Carmelia snipped.

"I'm a Duchess," Irina reminded her. "There are expectations of me."

"Well, I'll have you know, that there are _plenty_ of eligible men in these parts. There are more than a handful who come from ancient, royal lineages. Kings of Hungary, Princes of Transylvania, Wallachia…"

Irina wrinkled her nose. "I'm sure."

"They might not wear a crown anymore, Sparrow, but they did once… and still might," Carmelia hinted with a little shrug.

Irina was quietly outraged; she wasn't sure the Empress would agree with such a statement and was absolutely staggered that Carmelia had had the cheek to say it in front of her.

"Oh! Like Prince Lupesci, for example," Carmelia said as she spun Irina around and pointed out a beast of a man who happened to be deep in conversation with her father.

Firmly built – like the medieval bastions surrounding the town – he towered over the Duke. He had cropped, fawnish hair, and a rather solemn expression on his rugged face. He was wearing a plain, burgundy coat and white kerchief, and clearly took himself far too seriously to indulge in the masquerade because he wasn't wearing a mask. He certainly didn't _look_ like a prince – he looked more like a soldier or a politician. Boring, blunt and brutish.

"Prince of… _what_, exactly?" Irina asked.

Carmelia puzzled. "Oh, now wait, let me get this right… His great, great, great, great – I _think_ – grandfather was the last native King of Hungary – you know, before the war and before you Austrians so gallantly stepped in and chased off the Turks for us," she explained.

"Really. As far back as that?" Irina replied, unimpressed.

"Put it this way, Sparrow, if Transylvania wasn't ruled by the Empress then he'd _certainly_ be a top candidate for the position."

Irina watched Carmelia as she tilted her head and gazed longingly at the prince. It was _exactly_ the same kind of way Amalia used to stare at Karl. Irina narrowed her brown eyes and tried to see what Carmelia – and all the other ladies, it seemed – could see. She shrugged her lips; she supposed he was attractive in a rather brutish way… but only barely. "Do you know him… _well_?"

Carmelia sent her a mischievous look. She lifted her hand and tapped the gold wedding band she was wearing, "Oh, I would, if I wasn't already married."

Irina fanned herself.

"I bet there are at least a _hundred_ perfumed letters lurking at the bottom of _his_ desk drawer," Carmelia went on. "…_Not_ that'd he'd pay any attention to them, of course. Oh no, he's looking for someone with–"

Irina sighed; she didn't care. She'd never sent a perfumed letter in her life – and certainly not to some unimportant princeling. Personally, she didn't see what all the fuss was about; sometimes she wondered whether she'd been blessed _(or cursed)_ with a different set of eyes to the ones other women had. Amalia had always complained that she was too fussy; that she liked to viciously pick apart every Count, Baron and Duke that passed under her nose until she found _something_ to complain about. They were either too old, or they were too young. Some were too polite and others too rude. Too dark, too blonde. Too serious, too... droll. Amalia would roll her eyes and say, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you've already picked the apple you're after and won't settle for anything else." Taken a bite, more like; not that she'd ever tell.

As Carmelia's jaw rattled on and on, Irina's uninterested gaze roamed the room searching for – firstly – the footman who was carrying the drinks, and – secondly – a way _out_. She was done with this pathetic excuse for a masquerade ball. She wanted nothing more than to disappear through a door and retreat upstairs - snatching up a bottle of wine along the way. She'd retreat to her room, shed her gown and curl up with Folie and Scapino and one of her books.

She was busy formulating a decent excuse in her head _("Oh, that wine has gone straight to my head!" or perhaps, "a touch of the vapours, you know..." with a sort of woman to woman wink…)_ when she felt a shudder creep down her spine and prickle the hairs at the nape of her neck – as if a nearby window had been flung open by a frosty gale. It was followed instantly by the unnerving feeling that she was being watched – of someone's gaze tiptoeing across the skin of her shoulders – and instinctively, she scanned the room for the offending pair of eyes.

When she turned away from Carmelia and looked towards a tall window on the other side of the room, she found them and stumbled right into their owner's snare.

And when her own dark eyes settled on him, he smirked triumphantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hermannstadt": So, this is slightly confusing. Back in the 18th century, Transylvania was a Grand Principality of the Austrian Empire - which I think I mentioned back in Chapter One. As a result, there was quite a heavy German (although Germany doesn't really exist as we know it now at this point in time) and Austrian population in various Transylvanian towns (these people were known as the Transylvanian Saxons - and they'd been living there for centuries) and the Romanian towns you'd recognise the names of today (Cluj, Brasov etc...) were actually known by their German equivalents back then. Our story is based in Hermannstadt, which today is known as Sibiu, and back in the 18th century it was the Governor's Seat and where Transylvanian "Society" (the noble population) was based. There was a real clash of cultures back then - Hungarian, Austrian, as well as old Wallachian and Transylvanian. As you can imagine, it was a bit of a melting pot. Definitely have a quick Google of Sibiu - it looks like such a beautiful place, I'd love to visit it one day! The old Governor's Palace is just off the main square and is now a museum.
> 
> The "Bach" Irina refers to is none other than the great Johann Sebastian Bach and "Herr Gluck" was the Viennese Court composer (and I think, Marie Antoinette's harpsichord tutor... I think...). Where my baroque music nerds at? ;-)
> 
> "Sack-back" - Is a style of gown (also known as a robe à la française) that was very popular during the 1760s and 1770s. It was known for its ruffled sleeves and loose pleats running from the neckline of the bodice, down to the hem of the skirt - kind of like a train. Very fancy.
> 
> "Prost" - "Cheers" in German.
> 
> "The Vapours" was basically just an old way of saying "Dude, I'm PMSing HARD." Every time I read it I giggle because it reminds me of that episode of The Office where Micheal Scott gets everyone playing that Southern Murder Mystery Game... "Deb, what in the world! Do you have the vapours?" :-)


	4. Four

Irina blinked at the man, surprised that he didn't seem bothered by the fact that he'd been caught gawking at her. Although, gawking was far too clumsy a word for the way he was looking at her. His gaze was _thorough_; he examined her through his mask like a painting, admiring and analysing every stitch and pore.

There was something altogether dark and aristocratic about him; he was charming in an almost elusive and enigmatic way – a charm he seemed to wear like perfume. It _poured_ from him, from the smirk on his lips and the way he was leaning his body against the wood panelling – broad at the shoulders and tapered at the waist – to the way he'd crossed one black, riding boot over the other. Casual, confident.

He wore a black coat and waistcoat with elaborate silver embroidery hemming the cuffs and button holes, and yet, the finish was a little rough; the coat was old – the sort of thing the Duke might have worn in his youth – and he'd even forgone wearing a necktie, preferring instead to let his shirt collar sit upright and open around his pale neck. His dark hair was long enough to be gathered back but not long enough to be neatly tied, with liquorice black strands falling loosely around the mask that he wore – perched on high cheekbones. Dark hair peppered his pointed jaw and grew sparsely around his curling, smirking lips.

Irina swallowed a familiar lump in her throat. He reminded her of someone. Or rather he reminded her of a feeling. _Desire_ – dangerous and indomitable. After all, it wasn't the first time she'd fallen for a masked man; memories of that night often echoed within her, rekindled by a passing thought. Thoughts of candlelit cloisters, a string of black pearls and the soft but assertive caress of a stranger.

She'd certainly learned from _that_ night; that mistake. This man was probably the town libertine looking to lead the governor's daughter astray. He certainly looked the sort… athletic, aristocratic, attractive – albeit a little rough around the edges.

"Oh, Sparrow!"

Irina gulped for breath – as if waking from a dream – and tore her attention away to Carmelia tapping her arm.

"Your father's calling you over," she told her, pointing at the Duke who was waving from the other side of the room.

"…So it would seem," Irina replied, chancing a final glance at the masked man who'd been staring at her – only to find that he'd vanished. She frowned, confused, "…Uh, if you'll excuse me for a moment," she told Carmelia as she nodded her head and then walked over to join her father.

He was still deep in conversation with his new circle of friends, and as Irina stepped alongside him she glanced at Prince Lupesci, who was eyeing her with interest.

"–Well, yes, quite. I'm very sorry to hear you haven't caught the monster responsible yet," the Duke said. "Four women, you say? _All_ dead?"

The prince nodded. "All," he replied solemnly.

The Duke shook his head. "Terrible business," he said. "Nevertheless, the Empress, I'm _sure_, will be very pleased to hear there's a loyal group of men here devoted to ridding the place of such terrible violence. We should discuss how to go about hunting the devil responsible."

"Devil indeed, sir," a well-dressed old gentleman replied, clouds of grey hair springing wildly from his skull. "With a taste for pretty, young serf girls it would seem."

The men surrounding him gave a sober, solemn hum of agreement.

Sensing that the conversation had concluded, Irina interrupted. "You wanted to see me, papa?"

The Duke turned and smiled. "Ah yes! Here you are! Allow me to introduce you," he said, taking Irina's hand. He pointed to the older gentleman with the wild grey hair, "This gentleman here is Doctor Tarsus – the local physician and member of council."

Irina smiled and nodded. "Doctor," she greeted him, wondering whether he'd been professionally trained or was simply the town quack who could barely tell the difference between a finger and a foot. He certainly thought himself professional – with his green velvet coat and the golden pocket watch hanging from his embroidered waistcoat.

The Duke continued, "_This_ is Herr Carmitru," he announced, gesturing to the middle-aged gentleman with fair hair, a slight beard and a charming smile.

Irina curtseyed. "Ah, Herr Carmitru – I just met your lovely wife," she told him.

Herr Carmitru's green eyes flashed nervously from side to side. "Oh?"

"Yes, she was kind enough to come over and introduce herself when she noticed me looking rather lonely."

He smiled politely, "Ah, yes," he said, avoiding the glances of the other men. "…She's quite the social butterfly, my wife."

"You're a very lucky man," Irina remarked, though she sensed that Herr Carmitru didn't agree.

He nodded awkwardly. "…Thank you, Duchess."

The Duke smiled and gestured to a middle-aged man wearing a black cassock with red piping. He had a pointed nose and chestnut coloured hair. "_This_, is his excellency, Archbishop Sigismund," he said.

The archbishop bowed his head and offered Irina his hand. "Duchess."

Irina took his hand and kissed his gold ring and seal of office as she curtseyed faithfully. "Your excellency."

"My child."

The Duke placed a protective hand against his daughter's lower back as he made his final introduction. "And finally, _this_ – Irina – is Prince Alexander Lupesci."

Face to face with the so-called _Prince_ Lupesci, Irina found herself scanning him for some sign of distant royalty _(blue blood streaming out of his ears like a fountain, perhaps?)_. At the age of forty, he seemed a little too old to be a Prince; the wrinkles across his forehead and around his heavy-lidded eyes attested to that, while his clothes seemed far too plain to be princely. But there was something sharp and severe lurking behind the plain and placid attire; something in the gleaming broad sword hanging at his hip perhaps, or in the way he was staring back at her.

"Your highness, gentlemen – this is my daughter," the Duke announced, "Lady Irina Eleanora Adelaide Frederica Maria–"

Irina rolled her eyes as she opened her arms and curtseyed. "But simply _Duchess_ or Lady Irina will do, I think," she insisted. She'd always liked her full name – Eleanora for her mother, Adelaide for her mother's mother, Frederica for her father's mother and of course Maria for the Empress – but conversations tended to border on the ridiculous when full names were used.

Prince Lupesci took her hand and helped her to her feet. "Lady Irina," he said as he planted a kiss across her knuckles.

"The prince here has _quite_ a lineage!" the Duke exclaimed.

Irina smiled politely as she wriggled her fingers free of his warm grasp, glancing down the silver signet ring he wore which was engraved with the outline of a heraldic wolf. "So I've heard…"

"His – forgive me – _four_ times great grandfather, is that right?"

Prince Lupesci nodded proudly.

"Yes, his _four_ times great grandfather was the last King of Hungary," the Duke went on. "Brought the head of a Turkish general all the way to Vienna as a present for the Emperor!"

Irina's eyebrows lifted. "Did he really?" she replied, impressed. "What a strange gift. Don't they have potted plants and paperweights in Hungary?"

She'd only meant it as a joke, but it was all too clear that the prince hadn't found it very funny. He narrowed his eyes and blandly regarded her from head to toe.

The Duke's good-humoured chuckle broke the awkward silence. "You must forgive my daughter, your highness," he said, "I'm afraid she has a rather dry wit."

"Not at all, your grace," the prince replied, grasping the pommel of his sword.

Irina stared at him – stared at the sword. She truly believed the story that his – however many times – great grandfather had cradled the severed head of a Turkish general, and had a funny, frightening feeling that he'd severed it himself. The way the prince's knuckles were bleaching over his sword gave her the impression that such savagery had been passed down to him by blood.

Still, she smiled at him. "You speak German very well, your highness."

Prince Lupesci grunted. "You speak as though I have a choice," he replied. "All dispatches, bank notes and documentation must be written in German here – it's the law."

Irina hesitated. "Oh, I see…" she said, looking nervously at her father, who nodded.

Herr Carmitru interrupted. "Our last Governor simply refused to conduct his business or negotiate in anything but German – it was quite frustrating," he explained. He raised his eyebrows, "God rest his soul. What a tragedy his death was."

The archbishop crossed himself. "Requiescat in pace."

The Duke nodded. "Quite – a hunting accident, I hear?" he said. "Terrible."

Doctor Tarsus chuckled. "Yes, well, I can speak it well enough, but my vocabulary is limited – which I must say proved taxing professionally. Well, you can imagine the trouble in diagnosing a man intent on describing his bowel movements in a foreign language."

Irina blushed as she opened her fan and fluttered it a little. "Oh dear," she replied.

The Doctor bowed his head. "Oh, do forgive me, Duchess," he said. "That wasn't for sensitive ears."

She smiled. "That's quite alright, doctor," she replied. "I've been trying to learn a little Hungarian myself, but only enough to float through conversation so far. I'm not competent enough to swim just yet!"

The Prince was impressed. He shrugged his lips, "An admirable endeavour, Lady Irina."

"I've also _tried_ to learn a little Romanian, but–"

Herr Carmitru looked puzzled. "Why?"

"Well, the servants speak it; so, if I want my chamber pot emptied every morning then I have to at least try," she remarked flippantly.

The men stared at her.

Prince Lupesci huffed. "Only the serfs and peasants speak it," he told her. "Why lower yourself to please _them_?"

Irina glared at him. "I never _lower_ myself, your highness," she replied. _Unless I want to_, she thought to herself. She turned to the archbishop, "Isn't it true, excellency, that we elevate our souls through learning?"

The archbishop smiled. "Very true."

The Duke cleared his throat and stepped in, "Well, you'll have to forgive me – my brain's rather like a sieve these days," he apologised. "I imagine my daughter will have to act as my translator for the time being!"

But the Prince disagreed. He glanced around the circle, gauging the equally horrified reactions of the other men. "Surely not," he said. "Your daughter would be driven mad by such a task. You may always rely on _me_, your grace; I'd be happy to act as your translator when required."

"Oh!" the Duke replied. "Thank you, yes, that would be very kind of you, your highness."

Irina withheld her frustration. Weren't princes supposed to be _charming_? She decided to turn her attention to Doctor Tarsus instead, "Doctor, what areas of medicine are you most interested in?"

The doctor chuckled. "Oh, it's kind of you to feign an interest in my work but I fear you'd be bored by it, Duchess," he replied.

"Not at all!" Irina protested. "Please, I'd love to know."

The Doctor was surprised and confused. "...Why?"

Irina hesitated. What harm would it do to admit her interest? She wasn't in Vienna anymore; besides, perhaps she could share the doctor's knowledge. "Well, actually medicine is something of a hobby - particularly blood. I've more than fifty medical books – on anatomy, surgery and botanical and herbal remedies upstairs… If you'd ever like to exchange knowledge – you're welcome to borrow anything that might be of interest or that might help you in your work."

The doctor glared at her.

"…Irina," the Duke warned. "I'm sure the good doctor is more than capable of doing his work _without_ your help."

Irina looked stricken and quickly shook her head. "That's _not_ what I meant," she insisted. "I'm sure you're a very able physic, I just wanted to offer–"

Prince Lupesci stepped in. "Your father tells me that you're quite the huntress, Lady Irina," he interrupted.

"…I am," she sighed, abandoning the idea of having an interesting conversation about medicine. "I haven't had a chance to get out and explore the forests around here yet, though I'm told they're well stocked," she said, glancing irritably at her father.

"What's your weapon?" the Prince asked.

"Shot," she replied. "Pistols, sometimes a rifle."

Prince Lupesci shrugged his lips. "Not very subtle," he said.

Irina shrugged her shoulders to match. "Gets the job done."

"Well, I'm a crossbow man myself."

Irina snorted. "That's a bit medieval."

"I _prefer_ the old ways," he replied, staring at her. "_Anyone_ can fire a gun."

"True," Irina replied, "but not everyone can hit a moving target."

The archbishop chuckled. "My! Ambassador, Physician _and_ a Sharp Shooter," he listed. "Your daughter is quite the uh, _accomplished_ young woman, Duke."

The Duke leaned heavily on his cane and clutched his stomach. "Yes, she'll uh – forgive me – make quite a catch – ah – when the time comes–"

Irina frowned; he was clearly in pain. She took the glass of wine from his hand and rubbed his back gently, "No more wine tonight, papa," she said, handing off the glass to a hovering footman.

He gave her a nod before continuing, tightly grasping his cane. "Still, I didn't like the idea of her gallivanting off into unfamiliar forests without an escort – especially given those recent attacks," he said. "Armed or not, she _is_ my daughter."

The Prince nodded. "Wise," he agreed. "The surrounding forests are dangerous. There's a reason there are walls around this town."

Irina pulled a face. "I hardly think you need to be frightened about invading Turks anymore, Prince Lupesci," she teased.

He looked at her. "There are _other_ things to be fearful of, Lady Irina," he warned.

She narrowed her eyes. If he was trying to frighten her, then it wasn't working. "Like _what_?"

"Wolves," he replied. "…Among other things."

Irina rolled her eyes. "Ah yes, we've all heard the stories about vampires and blood countesses back in Vienna," she drawled. "They make quite entertaining bedtime stories for children."

The prince's gaze was fierce.

The Duke jumped in. "I wonder? Perhaps _you_ might accompany my daughter on an expedition, your highness? Some fresh air would do her good, I think."

Irina glared at him – silently begging him to stop. Twenty minutes in the company of Prince Lupesci had been _more_ than enough; she dreaded the idea of spending a whole afternoon with him.

The prince bowed his head. "I'd be happy to."

Irina tacked on a sour smile. "…Wonderful," she sighed, just as the musicians stirred and stumbled into a slow and sombre-sounding quadrille.

Prince Lupesci offered Irina his hand. "Shall we dance?" he asked her.

Irina blinked at his upturned palm and blunted fingers. She was surprised; he didn't seem the sort to enjoy dancing. "…Alright," she agreed as she tentatively placed her hand in his, his signet ring cold against her skin. At least it was a quadrille; she wouldn't have to suffer him for the whole dance, only as long as it took to change partners.

The eyes of the room were upon them as Prince Lupesci escorted Irina to the middle of the room to join the other couples busy assembling themselves. The vultures seemed _very_ interested; they prodded each other with their closed fans and whispered as the dancing began.

As expected, Prince Lupesci danced in much the same way as he spoke – rigid, sombre and forceful. He held her hand tightly and forced her movements in the same way a puppeteer manipulated a marionette. Irina avoided his firm gaze and practically held her breath until he finally stepped past her and let go of her hand – releasing her to her new dancing partner.

Irina breathed calmly through her lips as she bowed her head and dropped into a curtsey in front of her new partner, glancing down at his black riding boots. She wiped the sheen of sweat from Prince Lupesci's hand onto her skirt before offering her hand to the man now standing in front of her.

His hand was cold, and when she rose up to greet him, her heart leapt into her throat.

The man smirked; his eyes peering down at her through the holes in his mask. They were as blue as the roar of the sea on jagged rocks. "Alone at last."

He was at least a head and a half taller than her and loomed over her in much the same way the icy, snow-capped Carpathians towered over the town below.

"_You_," Irina thought out loud.

He chuckled, breath skidding tunelessly up his throat. "You're disappointed."

"_Disconcerted_," she corrected as he raised her hand above her head and circled her smoothly. He danced fluidly, his movements like smoke swirling through the air. "It would be courteous, sir, to at least offer me a _name_ first before declaring an intent to be alone with me."

When the man stepped back in front of her, he shrugged his lips. "Doesn't that defeat the purpose of a masquerade?" he replied as he promenaded her, his voice a sonorous purr.

Irina sent him a sideways glance through her own mask.

"You wouldn't want to spoil my fun now, would you?" he said as he swirled her to face him, adding – in a whisper – as he brought her closer, "Lady Irina."

Irina looked up at him. There was something in the way that he said her name – in that low, almost groaning whisper – that made her skin prickle. She'd always been _eye_-rina, never _ih_-rina. It tripped off his tongue in a most pleasing way.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment, falling from the freckles across her nose and cheeks to her neck before he remembered himself and continued with his steps.

"…Forgive me; I wasn't aware that we were playing a game," Irina said, slipping her hand from his cool grasp and spinning with a rustling of silk skirts. "…Although, something tells me that you're the sort of man who likes to cheat."

He laughed, throwing his head back as they linked shoulders and turned in a circle. "I'm a talented player; I've no need to cheat."

Irina couldn't help the smirk that spread across her lips at the sound of his laughter. "Good. Because I've learned not to make a habit out of playing games with men who cheat," she sneered, looking up at him. She felt like a moth dancing around a flame – the thrill of fluttering too close and burning her wings singing in her veins.

"Oh, do tell…" he growled, his eyes narrowing within his mask – the skin around them wrinkling.

"_Or_ ones who stare brazenly at women from across a room without introducing themselves first."

The man raised a dark eyebrow. "…My, we do think highly of ourselves, don't we?" he drawled, his gaze washing over every inch of her skin on show – sliding from her open lips down her neck before landing on her breasts.

Irina was outraged – and yet felt completely and utterly inflamed. "…You're a scoundrel."

"And you… are a snob," he taunted.

She scowled at him, burning beneath her bodice.

His lips curled. "You're a long way from the Imperial court, Lady Irina," he observed as he took her hand and turned her back against him. One hand smoothed its way down her raised arm, while the other hand landed flat against her ribs – his thumb brushing over the underside of her breast. "…You're in _my_ kingdom now," he rasped in her ear, brushing his nose against it.

When Irina swirled to slap him, she found that he was gone – spun away to another partner – and she flinched as her wrist was snatched up once again by Prince Lupesci. She looked around – stumbling through her steps – as she tried to find the mysterious man in black.

Prince Lupesci frowned. "What's wrong?" he demanded, irritated when she trod on his foot.

Irina looked up at him and shook her head. "…Nothing," she lied. "Nothing. I'm just… admiring the room, that's all."

"Who was that gentleman?" the prince grunted.

Irina pulled a face and shrugged. "…I wish I knew."

Prince Lupesci didn't seem to believe her, but whatever he was about to say was cut short when the ballroom doors were thrown inwards with a bang. The music trailed away as a man burst into the room carrying a young woman in his arms. She was draped limply across them like wet laundry; her skin pale and beaded with sweat.

"Ajutor!" he yelled in Romanian as he staggered into the room. "Ajuta-ma, _vă rog_! Help me! _Please_!"

There was a general murmur of horror around the room; ladies gasped and stumbled away from the man and his dishevelled appearance as well as the blood from the woman he held clotting onto his ragged clothes.

Despite the obvious severity of the situation, Herr Carmitru was furious. "How _dare_ you burst in on your betters!" he growled, clenching his fist. "Remove yourself, man!"

"Diavolul a atacat sora mea!" he cried out, nodding at the woman lying unconscious in his arms. "My sister! Please! _Ajutor_!"

Irina stared at him. _Diavolul_ sounded very much like the Italian word for devil, _diavolo_.

Prince Lupesci forced his way towards the young man, shoving aside whoever stood in his way – male or female. He grabbed a fistful of the woman's strawberry blonde curls and roughly lifted her head. He turned it slightly to take a better look at her neck which was covered in bright blood. "Is she alive?"

The man sobbed. "He marked her, master!" he moaned, pointing frantically at the windows and the town square beyond them. "He's out there!"

The prince dropped the woman's head. He dusted off his hands and stepped back. He glanced over his shoulder and snapped his fingers, "Doctor, quickly."

Herr Carmitru snorted. "They're serfs, who cares? Let them rot."

Irina glared at him. It horrified her that a man – if his wife was to be believed – who owned most of the serfs in the province and obviously relied on them, could be so cold and cruel towards them.

Prince Lupesci frowned at him. "_I_ care–"

Irina caught the Prince's determined gaze; she decided that perhaps she'd judged him too harshly.

"–If she survives, she'll help us find the devil responsible for such savagery."

Doctor Tarsus hurried forward. "In that case, I must work quickly," he said with a nod.

Irina rushed over to help. She pressed her hand against the woman's clammy, cold forehead and swallowed hard. The poor girl was pale and weak, her parted lips drained of colour – she'd clearly lost a lot of blood. "You can use _my_ room," she told the doctor. "It's straight up the stairs and to the left. _Hurry_."

Prince Lupesci motioned to the rabble of drunken soldiers hovering in the corner. "You men, with me," he commanded, waving at them to follow as he rushed from the room.

* * *

_ **Historical Notes:** _

_*** "Serfs" **are basically slaves - although, meh, not quite. In the eastern corners of Europe during the 18th century, a lot of towns and cities still adopted a kind of Feudal hierarchy. Serfs were peasants who weren't exactly "owned" by the nobility (it's very different to the kind of slavery you see in America pre-20th century), but they were bound/forced to serve them anyway. Some of the stipulations were ridiculous! They had to work for them for free perhaps four or five days of the week, they had to ask their permission to marry and sometimes even had to offer up eggs and other produce on holy days. Rid-ic-u-lous. In return, the nobility was supposed to **"**protect them**"** (heavily sarcastic airquotes there, people!) - which kind of made sense back in the day when the Turks were invading, but come the 18th century the balance was waaaaay off. Naughty nobles took advantage of such an outdated system. Kings and Queens were trying to put an end to it, but kind of failed because most of the nobility were like, "Uh, who's going to clean my palace/tend my rose garden/give me freebie eggs?" We're very much in the **"Age of Enlightenment"** where lots of the royal houses of Europe were reading Rousseau, Diderot, Voltaire and kind of "checking themselves" when it came to the well-being of their subjects. But while they liked to be **seen** as and thought of themselves as enlightened (/"woke"), actually doing something about it was a whole other story. Irina is probably in that lump of nobility - well meaning, but at the end of the day kind of constrained by tradition. (Don't forget, at this point in time we're about T-Minus 20 years away from **The French Revolution** and all the head slicing kicking off)._

_***** The **"Blood Countess"** Irina refers to is the one and only Erzebet (Elizabeth) Bathory who was one noble lady who (allegedly) got off on abusing her position of power when it came to Serfs. Holed up in Cachtice Castle she's accused of torturing and murdering anywhere in the region of 80 and 650 peasant girls between 1585 and 1609 - in pretty horrific ways (I'll leave you to go digging for that info; there are a couple of good podcasts out there, as well as an episode of Lore if you are interested). The legend goes that she liked to bathe in the blood of her victims to retain her youth - a story that was spread when accounts of the Bathory case and trial were released in 1729. Most people in the 18th century would have been well aware of her and would have believed the stories. There's a big argument that the charges were massively trumped up, but I honestly don't know._

_***** It wasn't that unusual for noble women to **hunt** for sport. Nowadays - obviously - we can all stand back, shake our heads, tsk and talk about how it's pretty downright cruel. But back then they didn't have Netflix or a local gym, so they kind of had to find other ways to amuse themselves/keep fit. ;-)_


	5. Five

** _Hermannstadt, November 1769_ **

A few days after All Hallows Eve, winter arrived in Hermannstadt. The town defences might have kept the wolves out but offered very little protection when they were besieged by the bitter north wind. The servants blamed the Vânturi, those mischievous Romanian spirits who swept into town from the mountains riding recklessly on the wind. They'd howl through the streets and whip up great swirls of snow, and – if the superstitious servants were to be believed – _trouble_. Seven of the wells in town had completely frozen over, a handful of peasants had injured themselves slipping on ice on the stone steps of the lower town, and some of the surrounding farmlands had become completely impassable.

The mood within the walls of the Governor's Palace wasn't much better; the Duke was in and out of bed plagued with stomach pains _(from travel and Transylvanian food, he complained)_, the maids complained because they were fed up of mopping up the puddles and pawprints trodden in by Scapino and Folie, the footmen complained because the maids were all in a foul mood, and the cook grumbled that the cold made her joints ache. The only person who seemed unaffected by the frosty air was Irina.

Since the night of the ball she'd worked tirelessly to bring her patient back from the brink. And since she'd perhaps stupidly seen fit to throw Doctor Tarsus out of the house, she'd had to do it completely on her own.

The man was an utter quack, which had become all too clear to Irina the moment he'd called for holy water and his lancet and suggested that bleeding the poor girl was the only way to save her life.

Irina had been horrified by the suggestion. "What?" she'd gasped, stepping over the man as he dragged up the clammy sleeve of the girl's blood-soaked chemise. She was sprawled out on a fur rug at the foot of Irina's bed _(since the doctor and the Duke had considered it unseemly to put her in the bed of a Duchess)_ while her poor brother hovered hopelessly nearby. Irina's eyes had widened when she noticed the scarring on the poor girl's forearms – wide pink stripes, like burns – shadows left behind from another night of violence. "…She's already lost far too much blood and you want to rob her of what precious little she has left?"

Doctor Tarsus sighed. "Poison has entered her body, Duchess; it _must_ be purged," he explained as he held the girl's limp arm by the wrist. "It's the _only_ way."

"Poison! From _what_?" Irina snorted as she stood over him, her hands twitching by her sides.

The doctor looked up at her as if she were simple. "…From the Vampire who attacked her, of course!"

Irina practically laughed. "What utter nonsense! Even if that _were_ the case, you should focus on cleaning the wound with alcohol instead of draining her further!"

"Alcohol!" the doctor laughed at her. "This is the devil's own poison, Duchess, it cannot be vanquished with alcohol!"

"This is madness! The only poison present here, sir, is _you_," Irina replied, folding her arms.

Suddenly the door to the room opened and Archbishop Sigismund appeared carrying a vial of holy water – a silver crucifix tangled around his closed fist. He approached with caution and crossed himself, his eyes widening when he noticed Irina.

"Good heavens, child, you shouldn't be in here!" he gasped, the silver crucifix swinging from his fist.

Irina pulled a face. She wanted to sarcastically point out that it was _her_ room, she every right to be there – but she knew she daren't snap at a man of the cloth.

"The devil's mark is upon this woman," he insisted as he stepped alongside her, pointing at the girl's body lying limply across the fur rug. "Women are vulnerable to it… especially _unmarried_ young women…"

Irina sighed.

Doctor Tarsus looked up. "Did you bring it?" he asked the archbishop.

Archbishop Sigismund nodded as he knelt down and opened his palm. Curled within his withered fingers was a single clove of garlic, which he handed to the doctor. "From the kitchens."

"Thank you," the doctor said as he opened the girl's mouth and carefully placed the clove under her tongue.

Irina stared, "What on _earth_ are you doing now?"

The archbishop began flicking holy water. "Crux sacra sit mihi lux, non draco sit mihi dux–"

Irina watched as the doctor picked up the girl's arm in one hand and held his lancet in the other. "You people are mad! Doctor, I'm begging you; _please_ listen to me," she ordered. She desperately wanted to step in – to _help_ – but what harm would it do to her reputation – to her father's standing as Governor – if she did? "All this nonsense will only–"

Doctor Tarsus frowned as he tried to concentrate. "Enough! We have very little time," he snapped as he lowered the lancet. "Let me do my work in peace or this woman will die."

"Varde retro satana!" the archbishop chanted, flicking holy water into the girl's greasy, wheat-coloured curls. "Sunt mala quae libas!"

Irina shook her head. She could barely believe what she was seeing! Whatever it was, she knew in her stomach that it was wrong and if she didn't put an end to it, the poor girl would die. And – whether the consequences of intervening came back to haunt her or not – she couldn't stand aside and let that happen. So – in spite what everyone would think of her – she frowned as she dropped onto her knees and snatched the doctor's wrist.

"_Stop_."

The doctor glared at her. "…Unhand me!"

She shoved his hand away. "This ridiculous ceremony – whatever it is – stops right now."

The archbishop blinked at her. "…Child, this woman has been marked by the devil, she _must_ be purified or–"

"Or what?" Irina snorted.

"She will become his vessel – a vampire," the archbishop explained, as simply as if he were explaining the change in the seasons, as if it were some natural thing. "She will go forth and spread evil–"

Irina threw her head back and groaned. "Enough!" she shouted. "You are both grown men and yet you still believe in children's stories? How utterly pathetic! This girl has been wounded and has lost a lot of blood; shoving garlic in her mouth and sprinkling her with holy water isn't going to change a damn thing and bleeding her will almost certainly finish her off. I won't let you do it."

There was a moment of silence – like the calm before a storm; all that could be heard were the girl's shallow breaths as the doctor and the archbishop looked at one another and then stared at Irina.

Doctor Tarsus threw down his lancet. "Very well," he said as it clattered across the floorboards. "She is only a _serf_ after all." He stood up, then strolled towards Irina. "I've been practicing medicine for longer than you've been breathing air and yet you presume to think you know better than me? Better than _God_?" he added, pointing at the archbishop.

Archbishop Sigismund stood up with him, rubbing his thumb frantically over the silver crucifix and prayer beads wrapped around his wrist.

"You have absolutely no idea what you are dealing with," Doctor Tarsus went on. "You're nothing more than a foolish girl playing doctor with a doll."

"You're gambling with forces you cannot control, child," the archbishop warned, pressing the crucifix into her hand.

Irina clambered to her feet and aggressively brushed down her satin skirts. "I'll take my chances," she said as she threw the crucifix to the floor and watched it skid across the floorboards. "Now, get out," she barked, pointing at the door. "Both of you."

"Mark my words, that girl will be dead by dawn," the doctor prophesised before he stormed out – the archbishop following closely behind.

As soon her bedroom door slammed shut, Irina panicked. Perhaps it was arrogant of her to think that she knew better; she'd never once performed surgery or saved a life – she'd only read books about it. It was all too easy to read a book about fishing – for example – but it didn't necessarily mean that you were more likely to catch the biggest trout in the river.

For a moment – barely a second – she wondered whether the monsters she'd ridiculed the two men for believing in actually did exist. But when she glanced between the girl lying flat and feverish in front of her, her brother sobbing at the foot of her bed and the maids cowering in the corner, she decided that it was far too late for a crisis of confidence and time was too precious to waste worrying about invisible monsters hiding in the dark.

She crouched down, opened the girl's mouth and plucked out the clove of garlic. She chucked it into her bed pan and then waved over the girl's brother and one of the maids, "Help me put her in the bed," she said, motioning to her large bed covered in furs and cushions. "We need to keep her warm."

Once the girl was settled in the bed and her lower body bundled in furs, Irina sent a maid to boil some water and fetch some brandy. "What's her name?" she asked the girl's brother as he stood over the bed wringing his bloody hands.

"_Fiebe_, Ducesă," he replied. He placed his hand over his chest, "And me – _mine_, Ferenc."

Irina pulled her lips into a nervous smile. "I'm going to do my best to help your sister, Ferenc," she promised softly. She frowned, "…But, she's lost a lot of blood."

It had been a long night; Irina had dragged the chair from her writing desk and held watch over her patient while the clock on the mantel ticked and chimed. Her first job had been to cleanse the wound, and as she gently wiped away the blood with a little brandy – the full extent of Fiebe's injury was revealed.

Irina felt her stomach somersault as she dabbed the soaked flannel over two deep puncture wounds in Fiebe's neck, as well as a halo of red bruising around them. After briefly consulting one of her books on anatomy, she noted that the wound lined up perfectly with the carotid artery that flowed beneath the pale skin just below the girl's ear. It was a savage bite mark – too small and too precise to have been from a wild animal. There were also bruises to the girl's upper arms in the shape of fingertips, which painted a clearer picture of the attack; it seemed to Irina that the poor girl had probably been grabbed from behind before she'd bitten. Stalked by a master predator, then surprised.

With nothing more to do and with the archbishop's warning ringing in her ears, Irina had bandaged the wound and sat down. She asked the maids to stoke the fire to keep the room warm and asked that enough water be brought up for her to spill between the girl's pale lips every hour.

Once everyone was gone and it was just her, the dogs and Fiebe, Irina unpacked her microscope. She was absolutely certain that Doctor Tarsus and the archbishop were completely cracked, but… just in case, and overcome with curiosity, she decided to unpack her microscope and take a closer look at Fiebe's blood. Perhaps if she'd been poisoned, she'd see something strange or unusual. She took one of the bloodied gauzes from the chamber pot, squeezed a few drops of blood out onto a glass slide and then peered through the lens.

There was a murky moment as the image came into focus, and Irina's heart began to beat wildly in anticipation of what she was about to see. After all, what if the doctor _had_ been right? What if Fiebe _had_ been poisoned? But as she adjusted the lens and narrowed her gaze as the red corpuscles came into focus, she couldn't find anything that might hint at some abnormality. The cells looked as they always did to her; a scattering of stationary rose petals.

Bolstered by her discovery, Irina sat by the bed and waited patiently for the sun to rise – her eyes flashing nervously between the gentle rise and fall of Fiebe's chest to the dark windowpane. If she could make it to dawn and prove the doctor wrong, then she was _sure_ the girl would have every hope of surviving.

And survive, she did.

It had all been going so well until Prince Lupesci turned up to tear her away from her work and take her hunting.

She would have refused had her father not insisted. "The girl's out of the woods now, _surely_," he'd said. "You've done splendidly, Liebling; the maids and the doctor can do the rest. A little air will do you some good – _enjoy_ yourself. Oh, and take Folie with you, will you?"

Folie raised her head and whimpered.

"Poor dog's just dying to get out."

Irina wasn't sure whether it was possible to enjoy herself when she was in the company of Prince Lupesci, but when she slipped into her silver redingote and furs and took her pistols out of their velvet case, she couldn't deny that she was at least a _little_ excited to be getting back in the saddle.

It was one of those crisp, winter afternoons where the sun snoozed all day along the horizon and cast a pale, yellow light across the snow-covered mountains and treetops in the distance. The small hunting party rode out through the town gate, splashed across the river and bounded a couple of miles out into the countryside in search of stag. And whilst a couple of riders went on ahead to find the deer and flush them out, Prince Lupesci showed Irina to a quiet spot in the forest – close to a river – where he claimed he'd always done well. But after two miserable hours sitting on her horse – poised and ready _(and very, very cold)_ – not even a bird had passed by, let alone a deer.

Irina sighed as she smoothed a hand along the speckled, grey neck of her Mecklenburger Mare. It was going to be dark soon; the deer would be moving on from their grazing ground.

Prince Lupesci raised an eyebrow. He was cleaning his crossbow, balancing the stock on his thick, leather clad thigh as he greased the track with a grimy handkerchief. "What?" he growled.

"Oh, nothing," she yawned into her glove, her breath fogging in front of her. "Nothing."

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked.

Irina watched the river and felt her eyes becoming tired. Surely, he wasn't serious? "Well, I will once we actually start hunting," was her crisp reply. "I mean, we've been out here for _hours_; the dogs are starting to get cold," she complained, glancing down at Folie snoozing in the brush, not so mention the fact that her backside had fallen asleep in its saddle. "…_I'm_ starting to get cold."

Prince Lupesci chuckled. "Hunting is about patience and stamina, Lady Irina," he told her, positioning a fresh bolt in his crossbow with a satisfying click. "…Where you come from, I imagine the Imperial forests are so well-stocked that patience is unnecessary; you just have to turn up, take aim and fire. Where _I_ come from… well, we'd struggle to call _that_ hunting."

Irina rolled her eyes. Honestly, if he thought so badly of her then why did he even bother inviting her? "On the contrary, your highness," she replied, "I'm just not used to sitting around waiting for the deer to bounce out in front of me. I'd much rather go and hunt them down myself. This quite takes the challenge out of it." And wasn't that the whole point anyway?

During Imperial hunting parties in Lainzer and the Bohemian Forest, the riders would bound out on horseback into the fields and forests following dogs on the scent. They'd tear off between the trees and chase down the quarry, racing through the thicket until they had the chance for a clean shot. The chase was what excited Irina the most; galloping at full speed between the trees, heart hammering and gulping for breath. It was quite normal – expected, even – to return at sundown with fifty to a hundred deer laid out, as well as several hundred birds and smaller game.

The prince shrugged his lips. "I must confess, deer aren't my preferred quarry."

"Oh no?"

"No."

She looked at him. "I've heard that it's not unusual for men to hunt bear in these parts."

"…Sometimes. In the spring," he replied as he lifted his boot and crossed it over the saddle, resting his crossbow across his thigh. "Some men enjoy killing an animal far bigger – far _stronger_ – than themselves to prove their own strength and courage–"

Irina's eyes practically rolled right back into her head.

"–But personally I prefer a _worthier_ opponent."

"Such as?" she asked.

The prince's lip curled slightly. "Wolves."

Irina raised her eyebrows. "…_Wolves_? May I ask _why_?"

"Well, firstly because they're a menace – particularly now, during the winter months when food is scarce," the prince explained. "The town council has always offered a bounty on any wolves caught or killed."

Irina had never seen a wolf before, though she'd certainly heard about them. Her maids had told her stories when she was little about curious children who wandered into the woods only to be eaten whole by hungry wolves and never seen or heard of again, and stories about them outwitting farmers and snacking on their hens were familiar. But thankfully, wolves didn't seem to like Vienna. Perhaps old wolves told their pups stories about bustling town centres and humans carrying guns.

"It's not about the money, of course," the prince continued with a shrug. "The truth is that I enjoy hunting them because they're astonishingly difficult to find and kill. They're a delicious challenge, you see."

Irina glanced down at the prince's signet ring and the wolf emblazoned on it. "…Why are they so difficult to hunt?"

"Because they're fiendishly intelligent – they've keen senses," he explained, tapping his head. "I've known wolves to recognise traps, destroy them, _escape_ them even – and they've even been known to train their damned pups to avoid them. They even like to play dead."

Irina was impressed. "How clever."

"They know this countryside better than any animal I've come across, which makes them elusive and difficult to pin down," the prince continued. "And of course, they're _fearsome_ fighters. I've seen adult wolves rip apart a pack of hunting dogs within minutes."

Irina glanced at Folie lying in the snow beside her horse. She'd seen her sink her teeth into the flank of a deer or rip apart pheasant in a shower of colourful red and green feathers plenty of times, but she doubted she'd be able to take on a wolf. Even Prince Lupesci's sharp and proud-looking Hungarian Hound, Demon, with its muscled haunches probably wouldn't fare any better in a fight with a ravenous grey wolf.

The prince nodded. "They pose a rare challenge. Which is why I enjoy hunting them," he said with a small smile. "After all, it's dull playing cards with a predictable opponent. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I would," Irina replied, wriggling her fingertips in her gloves – they were beginning to freeze around the reins. "It quite takes the fun out of it if you always win."

Prince Lupesci grunted. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he replied, eyeing her seriously. "I _always_ find a way to win in the end."

Irina looked at him and smiled politely.

"…I meant to ask," he went on. "Is that serf girl still alive?"

"Fiebe," she corrected. "She's much improved, your highness."

Although the girl was still _very_ weak, she'd regained a little colour in her cheeks and had finally awoken from her fevered sleep. The Duke had insisted that she ought to be moved – that it was unseemly for a simple peasant girl – a serf! – to sleep in the bed of a Duchess; the town was already bubbling over with gossip about the incident. But Irina argued that the girl would stay exactly where she was until she was strong enough to walk down the corridor to a different bed herself. Besides, the adjoining room wasn't _too_ awful; it was intended for a lady's maid, but since Irina hadn't had a chance to hire one, it remained empty. She was only on the other side of a door should her patient need her, and once Fiebe was a little better it would be the perfect place for her to convalesce. Let the town talk, she decided, but she secretly panicked that news would get back to Vienna.

Prince Lupesci nodded. "Then perhaps it's time I pay the girl a visit."

Irina practically laughed; the prince's bedside manner probably left a lot to be desired. "Why?"

"I have some important questions to ask her," he said, quite seriously. "We need to capture the devil responsible for all this."

Irina nodded slowly. "I understand that – I really do. But it's too soon," she replied. "She's still _very_ weak. I doubt she has the strength to stand an interrogation. Besides, her German isn't very good; she only speaks Romanian."

"Still, it's important I speak to her, Lady Irina," the prince went on, reaching back to grab a small silver flask from one of his saddle bags. He spun the cap and knocked a little of the liquid back. "I need to know what I'm up against; perhaps she can prepare me and my men."

Irina smirked. "…I thought you said it was dull to know all your opponent's moves," she teased.

He snarled at her. "You think this is a game?"

"Of course not," Irina groaned. "I was quite obviously joking."

The truth was that the whole incident had terrified her; the thought that there was some man or monster out there capable of attacking a woman and draining her of her blood was enough to make her own blood run cold. She still refused to believe that that monster was a vampire as everyone else seemed to believe, however. The notion was ludicrous!

"_Five_ women have been attacked in three months and this girl is the only one who's survived," Prince Lupesci growled. "She's the only hope we have of putting an end to it all."

"All the more reason to give her time, your highness," Irina warned. "As I said, she's very weak. She barely survived."

The prince grunted. "I don't understand why she's still at the palace – in your bed chamber of all places! I would throw her out if I were you," he said.

Irina glared at him, disgusted at the suggestion. "Why on earth would I do that? The poor girl's been through enough."

"The town will talk," he warned her. "A good deal of them believe she's been marked by the devil; if you keep her close they'll say you're in league with him yourself."

Irina tutted and rolled her eyes. "That's absolutely ridiculous, and you know it."

"…A dove who chooses to spend time with a crow will soon find that her own feathers turn black," the prince said, shrugging his lips.

Irina sneered at him. She tutted, "Well, I happen to quite like black…" It was true, she actually enjoyed court funerals; it was her only chance to wear such a shade of silk. "Besides," she went on, "and to be clear, I'm only telling you this because I think you're as sceptical as I am – I drew some of her blood and looked at it under my microscope."

The prince looked at her. "And?"

"It's clean; there's no sign of any poison or abnormality. So, all this hysteria about vampires is _completely_ unfounded," she explained. After a moment, she raised her eyebrows and scoffed, "I suppose it's far more frightening in a way," she thought out loud.

"…What is?"

Irina looked at him as if he were stupid. "Well, if it's not a vampire, then it's a human being, your highness. Living, breathing flesh with a beating heart and a conscience," she replied. "I shudder to think what kind of man could be capable such a thing."

"…A monster," the prince suggested as he spun open the cap of his flask and threw back the liquid inside.

Suddenly, a horn blared out in the distance – a call from the drivers that the deer had finally been found and were on the move.

Irina felt her heart begin to pick up pace as she reached down and grabbed her pistol.

"Ready?" Prince Lupesci asked as he raised his crossbow.

She filled the pan with gunpowder, loaded the barrel and cocked the hammer. "Ready," she replied.

They dug their heels into the sides of their horses and quietly moved forward towards the edge of the clearing – just breaching the line of pines.

First there was the distant sound of hooves – like rain pitting a rooftop – and then suddenly the deer were everywhere; the clearing and shallow river was filled with flashes of speckled, fawn-coloured hide. The prince's hound, Demon, let out a thunderous bark and impulsively bolted after them.

"Leave the females and the fawns, go for the stags," the Prince yelled over the sound of his horse rearing noisily. "Stay close!"

And then he was gone, galloping after the herd.

Irina clicked her tongue, cracked the reigns and then off she went.

Up ahead, there were at least twenty fallow deer and – God – they were fast! They sprung from side to side, zig-zagging between the trees and across the brook. The female deer were sleek and sprightly – their stride so light and so fast that they barely appeared to touch the ground as they went – small clouds of snow bursting from the undergrowth as they went. Folie barked at them excitedly, tucking her tail under as she sprinted after them. But the stags were further forward – at the head of the herd – their antlers bobbing beneath the branches.

As Irina rose up – standing side saddle on the stirrup – she could see Prince Lupesci's black horse shadowing the stags, a few of the younger drivers alongside him. When one of the younger riders – eager for a quick kill – fired his rifle, a loud crack echoed through the forest.

Irina stopped and watched as crows erupted from the trees around her, followed by a plume of black smoke up ahead. At the sound, the herd scattered, springing off in different directions – fleeing back into the safety of the forest and the steadily encroaching darkness.

"Idiot!" Prince Lupesci yelled as he pulled on the reins of his horse and dragged it after a large stag who'd just scarpered off between the trees beside him.

Irina hesitated. Should she follow the prince or head off in the opposite direction after the rest of the herd?

Then Folie turned and let out a howling bark, pointing her nose at a pair of antlers vanishing into the snowy thicket beside them.

"Good girl, Folie!" she cheered as she pulled her horse around, clicked her tongue and spurred it to give chase.

The forest was difficult to navigate in the fading light; the snarling, unruly branches and towering pines blocking out the setting sun. While the stag weaved gracefully between the trees and bounced over fallen trunks and bracken – Irina fought hard to cut her way through. She leaned forward in the saddle to avoid the low branches laden with snow, wrapping one arm around the horse's neck and reaching out with the other, pistol trained forward. But the forest was a thick and tangled warren, and – when she failed to duck down in time – an errant branch swiped at her cheek – drawing blood.

Eventually though, she was forced to admit defeat when the stag changed direction and vanished deep into the forest.

Irina sighed as she gently pulled on the reigns and eased the horse to a stop. She swivelled in the saddle and looked around. Her heart dropped into her stomach when she was faced with dense woodland in every direction she looked. And up above, any patches of sky she could see were becoming dark.

Folie trotted alongside the horse, nose twitching as she tried to pick up any familiar scents in the air.

Irina held her breath, listening out to see if she could hear the sound of the hunting party nearby. But all she could hear was thin air, and a crow croaking ominously. She had no idea where she was, or far she'd come and even less of an idea which way to go next.

Folie looked up at her and whimpered.

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_***"Vânturi":** Romanian word for "winds" - but more specifically, very cold winter winds that usually bring snow storms._

_***"Crux sacra sit mihi lux, non draco sit mihi dux"**: "Holy Cross be my light, let not the devil be my guide."_

_***** **Ducesă**_: _The Romanian word for "Duchess"._

_***Fil de la vie:** French, "Thread of Life"._

_***Microscopy/Red Blood Cells:** As I mentioned in Chapter 2, red blood cells had been first viewed through a microscope back in 1658 - but that was about it. They were seen, they were described and a rough size estimated, but no one really knew what they did and it would be another 100 years or so before they saw anything else (white blood cells, platelets etc). And it wouldn't be until the 19th century that hematology became a field of medicine._

_***Redingote:** A Redingote is basically a riding coat - but more specifically it was the type of gown that women wore when they went hunting or riding - they were sometimes called "Amazones" and I've always kind of thought of them as the women's power-suit of the 18th century. Damn, if I could throw in a link to picture here I would, but I can't, so you'll just have to either google it yourself or rely on my bad description. Hm. Just think of Dracula's outfit in Van Helsing, but with a skirt._

_...You're picturing Dracula wearing a dress now, aren't you?_

_***Prince Lupesci and Wolf Hunting:** As you can imagine, historically wolves (and in particular, the Grey Wolves native to Europe) have always posed a bit of a threat to humans, particularly during the winter months when food is scarce and they're more likely to wander into towns and villages looking for it. A lot of noblemen and even Kings and Queens across Europe employed Wolf Hunters to go out and kill dangerous wolves encroaching on human "territory". In France, Charlemagne employed **"Luparii"**, men responsible for hunting wolves (oooh, that's pretty close to "Lupesci" dontcha think?), a position which eventually evolved into the office of "The Wolfcatcher Royal". If you're interested (shameless plug incoming...) I wrote a short story about a Russian Wolfcatcher who is kind of based on Lupesci's character - just click through to my bio and hit up the first story in the "Daisies for the Queen of the Dead" series._

_***Mecklenburger Mare:** Type of horse, bred in the 18th century._

_***Lainzer:** I think I mentioned Lainzer in passing in Chapter One, but it's basically a massive wildlife park on the edge of Vienna. Back in the day, it was a fenced in hunting ground for the Habsburgs to use when they fancied killing something. Today, it's home to up to 1000 wild boar and 250 fallow deer._


	6. Six

Irina slid down from her saddle and steadied herself as her boots crunched into the frosty undergrowth. She knew it probably wasn't sensible to dismount and go wandering alone in the depths of a foreign forest, but she was saddle sore and decided that she'd rather freeze to death than wait around for Prince Lupesci to come galloping back to rescue her.

The horse grunted – its breath fogging around its muzzle – as Irina scooped up the reins and calmly walked it over to a nearby tree. Above her – through a tangle of branches and pine needles laden with snow – the light was fading quickly, a smattering of stars peeking through a clear pink and purple blanket. She tried to remember which way the hunting party had travelled after leaving town; if she _could_ remember, she had a wild idea that she might try and navigate her way back by the stars. She'd read about it in a book once. Was it east? She wasn't sure, and even if she _was_, the thick, forest canopy only allowed her a glimpse of the evening sky. Not enough for it to be a suitable map.

Folie whimpered and licked her lips as Irina tied off the horse.

"Shh, it's alright," she called out as she spun around, comforting the dog with a quick ear scratch.

But was it? She was lost and alone in the middle of an unfamiliar forest in a land a long way from home, and as she rubbed her arms against the creeping cold she peered around the small clearing and found nothing but dark, dense forest in every direction she looked.

Feeling a sting in her cheek, Irina lifted her gloved fingertips and pressed them to her skin. When she pulled them away, they were spotted with fresh blood. "…Damn," she muttered, wincing as she dabbed at her cheek.

She was contemplating retracing her own tracks back through the forest when suddenly the horse shrieked and shuffled backwards – nodding its head and grinding its muzzle as it pulled against the reins.

Irina reached out and touched its neck. "Whoa, shh!" she soothed, smoothing its mottled, grey skin. "It's alright!"

But the horse continued to struggle, thrashing its head as it tried to tug itself free. It bucked and brayed, beating its hooves in panic, its brown eyes wide.

"What's the matter with you?" Irina scolded as she scrambled to reach the reins. "Enough!"

And then she heard Folie growling behind her.

Irina turned quickly. Folie was a gentle, playful soul; she'd never heard her make such a noise – that slow, rolling growl – and when she turned, she was surprised to find her snarling like a lion at something creeping in the shadows up ahead.

A _wolf_.

Fear slithered up Irina's spine – ice-cold fingers climbing the laces of her stays – as she watched it slink out from between two trees, its full grey coat full of snow and bristling in the cold. It prowled towards them – belly to the ground – licking its lips as it eyed her with a sharp, blue gaze.

Folie stepped in front of Irina and arched her back, digging her front paws into the snow. Her black ears were pulled back flat against her skull, her lips shrinking away from her canines as a growl rumbled from the depths of her throat – dragging with it a ferocity that astounded Irina.

The wolf too seemed surprised and hunched its head at the sound.

Irina held her breath and took a slow step backwards; blindly reaching back into one of her saddle bags. She quickly found what she was looking for – her gloved fingertips walking across the barrel of her pistol, still loaded from the hunt – and she quietly grabbed it. She licked her cold lips as she brought it out, eased back the hammer and trained it on the wolf – who was gingerly sniffing at the snow.

Prince Lupesci had made himself very clear about wolves. They were predators, he'd told her. Savage hunters. They _deserved_ to die.

She'd have one shot, and she daren't miss.

Irina squeezed her finger on the trigger just as the wolf looked up. But before she could take the shot, its ears flinched, its nose twitched and then it simply turned on its heel and disappeared back into the forest.

Irina relaxed her finger and looked puzzled as she watched the silvery tip of the wolf's tail vanish into the shadows, like smoke. When it failed to return, she lowered it the pistol.

Folie barked and whimpered, and when she lunged to chase after the reluctant wolf Irina quickly reached out and grabbed her by the collar. "Ah, ah! Let it go," she warned as she crouched down and wrapped her arms around the dog's neck. She buried her fingers into the black and brown fur along Folie's neck and chin, "My brave girl," she whispered, planting a soft kiss behind the dog's floppy ear and laughing when she returned it with sloppy swipe to her bloodied cheek.

"…Are you lost?" a man's voice suddenly called from behind.

Irina leapt upright and pointed her pistol in the direction of the voice. She was starting to feel a little ridiculous; she'd come hunting for deer and now she appeared to be hunting wolves and strange men, or – more specifically – strange _gentlemen_.

When her gaze fell upon the owner of the voice, her eyebrows leapt. _Hello handsome_.

He was dressed immaculately – although a little plainly – in a dark overcoat and waistcoat _(probably black, but it was difficult to tell in the fading light)_, riding boots and an open shirt. His dark hair hung loosely around his face – around hooded, slightly wrinkled blue eyes and a strangely familiar, rather charming smile. A wolfish shadow of a beard grew along his pointed jaw – like last summer's crop poking up through the snow.

Irina narrowed her eyes as he lifted one riding boot and stepped out of the thicket."…I could ask the same of you, sir," she replied.

He raised his eyebrows and then shrugged his lips. "I confess, I quite enjoy being lost."

She was surprised and puzzled; _where_ had he come from? And while she stood there bundled in furs – her shoulders shaking in the cold – he seemed to be perfectly comfortable. His hands and neck were bare to the breeze, and his breath wasn't even visible in the icy air.

She kept the pistol at arm's length and trained it on the stranger's forehead. "Who are you; what are you doing here?"

He shrugged his lips and smiled. "Just… enjoying the night air," he replied, his voice raspy and his German impeccable - despite its foreign lilt. "I find an evening stroll helps to clear the senses."

"…Stroll?" Irina echoed in disbelief. "You mean, you walked all this way? Are you mad; we're _miles_ from town."

"Actually, my home is not far from here," he replied, before taking a deep breath. "…I do love the scent of the forest at dusk, don't you?"

Irina raised an eyebrow. Still, she took a breath and inhaled the evening air and along with it the sweet smell of the pines.

He looked at her and smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "…And, you never know what – or _who_ – you might stumble across along the way."

"…Aren't you afraid of wolves?" Irina asked as he strolled towards her.

"And armed women, I suppose?" he drawled, gesturing vaguely at her gun. He grinned. "No."

Irina believed him. But still, "That's close enough, sir," she warned, drawing back the hammer of her pistol with a sharp click.

The man stopped and lifted his dark eyebrows. He looked bored. "You won't shoot me."

"Oh, won't I?" Irina replied sweetly. "It's _very_ tempting."

"Not if you want my help," he replied, just as Folie trotted over to greet him – the ice-cold ferocity she'd displayed towards the wolf having completely melted. The man knelt to greet her. "…Ah, buna seara, doamna frumoasa," he whispered, rubbing her head and scratching her ears. He even chuckled when she rolled onto her back and grinned up at him, tongue lolling between her teeth.

Irina lowered her gun a little, disarmed by what she saw_. _Anyone who treated a dog so kindly couldn't be _that_ dangerous, surely? Still, "I'm perfectly fine, thank you," she insisted. "I don't _need_ rescuing."

The man gave Folie one final pat, then stood up. He raised an eyebrow. "But of course," he scoffed. "Stranded alone in a forest teaming with wolves, waving around a weapon and... _bleeding_–"

Irina lifted a hand to her cheek and dabbed at the cut there.

The man's lips curled as he watched her, his eyes fixed to the bloodied fingertips of her glove. "–It does seem as though you have the situation under control."

"...I got separated from my hunting party," she explained with a shrug. "I'm _sure_ they'll come looking for me any moment now."

He seemed impressed. "A huntress, no less," he remarked as he fiddled with the cuffs of his coat, straightening them. "And what do you hunt for, _dragă mea_?"

Irina watched him closely, "Well, I _came_ looking for deer," she replied. "...But all I've found so far are wolves and strange men."

He chuckled. "How disappointing."

She sighed. "Very."

The man nodded. "Well, then. I'll leave you to wait for your search party. I do hope they're more skilled at hunting Duchesses than they are at hunting deer." He bowed elegantly and then turned to leave, "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Lady Irina."

Irina blinked; the way her name rolled off his tongue was so familiar. "_Wait_," she demanded. "How do you know my–"

He spun slowly, eyeing her from over his shoulder through wispy threads of dark hair.

"…Have we met?" she asked. And then she suddenly recalled the last stranger she'd found irritating: that masked gentleman at the All Hallows Eve masquerade.

He frowned, narrowing his blue eyes at her. "You don't remember me," he realised out loud, and appeared quite annoyed about it. He practically rolled his eyes, "Of course, why would you?"

She shrugged innocently and shook her head. "No." She found that she quite enjoyed the way his dark eyebrows furrowed and how his jaw clenched; she couldn't resist teasing him, fluttering her eyelashes innocently. "…Should I?"

His gaze was penetrative. "I should think so," he replied, his voice husky. "As dawn recalls the dark."

Irina blushed under his forceful gaze; what a thing to say! "…I think you're mistaking me for someone else."

He grunted, "And there I was imagining that I'd made an impression."

Irina smiled. "Well, if it's any conciliation, I won't forget _this_ meeting, uh…" she said, her words trailing away to an empty silence where she hoped that he'd offer her his name. "What did you say you name was?"

"I didn't." He bowed again, lowering his head so that tendrils of dark hair fell across the slight creases in his forehead. "Vladislaus," he said.

Irina's eyebrows bounced as she slowly crossed the clearing to greet him. She lowered her voice and tried his accent on like a fur coat, "Vladislaus?"

He sighed.

"…Like, Vlad the Impaler?" she teased, recalling all those old tales of the bloodthirsty Transylvanian prince.

He frowned slightly as she drew close. "…If you insist."

"_Vlad_… Is that all?" she asked. No title? No family name?

There was a ghost of a smile on his lips as he peered down his nose at her. "…For now."

She stared at him, intrigued. "Très mystérieux," she muttered as she offered him her hand.

He raised his eyebrows at it and then pulled his lips into a smile. "Well. Goodnight then," he said as he turned to leave.

Irina dropped her hand, shocked. Perhaps she'd teased him once too much. "You're _leaving_?"

He kept walking. "You seem to have everything under control," he replied glancing back at her with a satisfied grin.

She waved her pistol. "…You're not even going to _point_ me in the right direction?"

"I think I'd much rather lead you in the _wrong_ direction, Duchess," he teased.

Irina gaped. "Well, a gentleman would insist on escorting me back to town–"

He ducked under a branch. "I never said I was a gentleman."

Irina scowled. And - sensing her only way back to town about to disappear - she raised her pistol and fired a shot off into the branch, bits of bark showering the back of Vlad's dark coat. The sound was crisp and echoed through the clearing, but the man didn't even flinch. He simply stopped and turned, his gaze stormy.

"I _demand_ that you escort me back."

Vlad sent her a dark, scolding look. "…You _demand_?" he echoed, outraged. "You _demand_?"

Irina practically gulped at the way he was staring at her; it was a look even more feral than the wolf.

"The situation as I see it – _dragă mea_ – is that any power you presumed to hold over me is now buried an inch within that trunk," he said, pointing to the bullet hole in the branch above his head. "…And what now? Hm?" he grunted as he began retracing his steps, prowling back towards her through the snow. "…What are you going to do now that you've spent it?"

Irina stared at him, her brown eyes wide.

"What if I were to… forget my manners?" he asked with a shrug.

"_What_ manners!" she snorted as she took a step back. "And, I've plenty more musket balls in my saddle bag; I came here to hunt after all."

His gaze became as sharp as the pines as he trod closer and closer. "So did I..."

Irina tsked. "Ah yes," she remarked sourly, taking another small step back towards her horse. "I forgot that you like to prey on women at masquerade balls."

Vlad raised his eyebrows. He smirked, "…Ah, so you _do_ remember me."

"_Unfortunately_," she replied.

Suddenly, Irina swirled away from him and threw herself towards the horse and its saddle bag. But before she could even touch it, the devil had somehow appeared beside her and had snatched her wrist up in his cold grasp – clamping his fingers around it like iron shackles. He pulled a face and growled as he wrestled the silver pistol from her grasp, tutting as he threw it down into the snow.

Irina blinked down at his hand, then scowled. "How dare you! _Remove_ your hand!" she snarled as she clenched her fist and attempted to pull away from him.

Vlad stared at her, his gaze flitting between her eyes and the bleeding cut on her cheek. "...Or _what_, exactly?"

She struggled harder. "_Folie_! My dog! She'll attack you!" she threatened, as Folie - at the sound of her name - came padding over with her tail wagging.

She panted as she sat obediently beside Vlad and then reached up with her snout to lick the fingertips of his free hand.

Vlad sent Irina a pathetic look. "…Terrifying," he remarked dryly, flexing his fingers as Folie's warm tongue swirled around them. He wrinkled his nose as he withdrew his hand, "...And disgusting."

Irina huffed at her traitorous dog as she slumped comfortably onto her side and began licking between her legs. _Lovely_.

Vlad's sarcastic snarl melted into a smirk. He tightened his grip on Irina's wrist and suddenly tugged her towards him, spinning her into an embrace as if they were engaged in a ferociously-paced minuet.

When her back collided with his firm frame, Irina squeaked. "…I'll scream," she warned, but closed her eyes and groaned almost as soon as she'd said it. How foolish she sounded. Who on earth was going to hear her? The only spectators to their struggle were the stars, the snow and the shadows from the tall pines that surrounded them.

"Oh yes, please do," Vlad purred as he leaned closer, his head hovering in the crook of her neck – his breath bristling through her hair, across her bloodied cheek and the soft fibres of the fur stole she wore.

Irina retreated, straining and stretching her neck away from the musky scent of his skin. "You won't hurt me," she hoped, trying to sound as fearless as she could.

"Won't I? It's _very_ tempting…" he replied, teasing her with her own words.

"You wouldn't _dare_," she sneered, wrestling in his grasp. "I'm the Duchess of Brunswick; the Empress would hang for it–"

Vlad chuckled close to her ear, disturbing the soft brown curls there and the diamonds dangling from her earlobe. He shrugged his lips, "…Perhaps. Although, I'd very much like to see her try," he whispered, the cool tip of his nose tracing the muscles in her neck. His voice strained as he eyed the slash in her cheek and the blood dribbling from it. "…But if taking on the might of the Imperial army is the price for _finally_ having my wicked way with the Duchess of Brunswick… then, so be it…"

Irina held her breath as his lips traced her skin - across her jaw and her neck. He spoke of her as if he'd been hunting her for miles, for years.

"…It'd be worth it," he went on, planting a soft kiss just below her ear.

She released a shaky breath; her whole scalp bristled. "…I'm not frightened of you," she spat, and to her own surprise it was completely true. She wasn't frightened of him.

"…Ah. But your heartbeat would suggest otherwise," he rasped. "…It's _galloping_…"

True, she could practically hear it pounding in her ears. And suddenly – although she could see her breath misting in front of her – she was sweltering beneath her furs, her skin sticking to her stays.

Vlad watched as she swallowed and felt her throat click beneath his lips. "…Unless it's beating for some _other_ reason, perhaps..." he practically growled as he lowered his mouth to her neck, feeling it pulse beneath his lips.

Irina shuddered in his grasp.

But then - after a moment that seemed to stretch on and on - he suddenly lifted his head. "…But," Vlad began as he released her and took a step back.

Irina squeaked as she stumbled forward into a tree, her gloved fingertips clawing into the knotted trunk.

"…You happen to find me in a rare and rather altruistic mood, Duchess," he remarked with a shrug. "Bear _that_ in mind next time you go waving a weapon and making demands."

Irina grunted as she scrambled to scoop up her pistol. "…You're an utter, _utter_ scoundrel," she shouted, feeling her cheeks blaze.

"_And_ your saviour," he replied, stepping towards her horse. He placed one his large palms against its neck and then reached to untie the reins. "I'll escort you home. I know the way."

She snorted at his arrogance. "…What makes you think I'm going anywhere with you? After _that_ display! You must be joking."

He sighed impatiently. "Do you _want_ to be feasted on by wolves? Or whatever else might be lurking out here," he asked as he placed his foot in the stirrup and easily climbed up onto the horse – who shuffled slightly under his added weight. "It's entirely up to you, of course."

Irina gaped; he rode it well. She'd always rolled her eyes when Amalia gushed on and on about Karl looking heroic on a horse; now she understood.

"You _could_ take your chances on your hunting party returning, but… your body temperature is dropping quickly; if the wolves don't get you then the cold almost certainly will."

Irina folded her arms. What did _he_ know of her body temperature? "…I'm not entirely sure what's worse," she told him. "Being ravaged by wolves, freezing to death or–"

"Being ravaged by me?" he interrupted.

Irina's mouth hung open. She snapped it shut. She couldn't decide whether she was more outraged by the fact that he'd said such a thing to her, or the way such a statement made her feel.

Vlad trotted the horse alongside her and offered her his hand. He smiled. "I won't bite," he said, offering her his hand. "...This time. I promise."

She sneered at it; wasn't it unseemly to share a mount with any man – let alone a stranger? Amalia would have been horrified. But when Irina glanced over her shoulder at the dwindling light between the trees and felt the cold nipping at her nose, she decided that she had very little choice and begrudgingly gave her un-gallant rescuer her hand. He pulled her up and onto the saddle behind him easily, and – once she'd hesitantly wrapped her arms around his middle – they were away, with Folie chasing close behind.

It didn't take very long to emerge from the pines and the shadows of the forest. The mood of the landscape had changed dramatically; instead of bathing in the warm hues of the setting sun, the fields were now chilling in the eerie, blue glow of the gibbous moon.

"So. How are you finding my homeland?" Vlad asked, raising his voice above the sound of the horse's pounding hooves.

"Cold," Irina replied. "…In _every_ sense of the word."

"Then why not go back to Vienna?" Vlad practically snapped. "Back to where you belong."

She frowned. "…A daughter's duty," she explained. "I won't leave my father."

"Why not? I'm sure you've a selection of equally self-important sisters who might take your place," he suggested.

"None, unfortunately," Irina replied with a sigh. "My mother is dead; my father never remarried. I'm an only child."

Vlad turned his head slightly. "…I'm sorry," he replied, and even though it had sounded a little hollow, Irina was surprised he'd even said it.

"…So, you see, I'm stuck here," she said, glancing off to the side and into the snowy gloom they were bounding through.

"And we're stuck with you. Wonderful."

Irina scowled; was he teasing her or attacking her? It was hard to tell.

"Surely Transylvania isn't that terrible," Vlad went on. He pointed off to the side, "Just look at those mountains. I've never been able to travel very far without them calling me back…"

Irina glanced at the scraggy, shadowy outline of the Southern Carpathians, white against the dark sky. She couldn't deny their pull; one of the few pleasures she'd found since arriving in Hermannstadt had been watching the evening sunlight colour them from her bedroom window.

"You've travelled?" she asked, surprised – no one else in Hermannstadt seemed to have.

He shrugged his shoulders a little. "…Adrianople, Budapest, St Petersburg, Venice, Paris, London… to name a few. I've even been to Vienna," he replied. "More out of necessity than a desire to do so, however."

Irina frowned; she knew he was trying to tease her. So she teased back, "And still you chose to return _here_?"

"It's my home," he replied simply, as if the question had been absurd. "It's who I am."

Irina blinked at the back of his head. She knew the feeling well, "I suppose I understand – in a way," she replied softly. "Vienna will always be _my_ home. I miss it terribly."

"Perhaps Transylvania will charm you unexpectedly," Vlad suggested, smiling.

She adjusted her grip around his waist, her fingers brushing across his taut stomach. She may as well have been hugging a stone statue, she thought to herself. "It's a charming place, but–"

"But?"

"Well... it's just so… _backward_, and quiet," she said. "There isn't even a theatre for goodness sake!"

Vlad chuckled, his ribs rolling beneath her fingers. "And I suppose that upsets you because you've nowhere to wear all your diamonds?"

Irina jabbed him and couldn't help smiling when he crumpled a little. "I miss music," she complained. "I miss the opera."

"Opera?" Vlad replied, pulling a face. "All that wailing and–"

She might as well have drawn her pistol again. "I _love_ opera," she insisted passionately. "It feels in all the ways that I can't."

Vlad turned his head and looked at her.

Irina looked away; as soon as she'd said it she wished she could take it back. Why _had_ she said it? It was the truth, but it was her _secret_ truth. It wasn't just the music and costumes, and the glamour of attending the opera and spying on society, but that the characters expressed their emotions so freely and so passionately. It was free and full of magic, romance and violence – everything barred to her as a woman, and a noblewoman at that. The heroines were brave and brutal and bawdy - everything she wasn't allowed to be. Opera was a siren's song to her deepest, darkest desires; seeing them staged in front of her sated her enough to stop her from indulging in them herself.

Still, she wasn't sure why she'd felt the need to tell _him_ that. Perhaps it was because she didn't really care what Vlad thought about her; he wasn't a Duke or an Emperor after all. He was just a man, for all she knew. Beneath her in status and living on the fringes of society - and Transylvanian society at that. It didn't matter if he judged her darkest truths.

Irina hurried on, "But it's not just the opera – it's the markets, the balls, the gaming tables–"

"The gaming tables?" he repeated with interest.

"Yes, and the palace gardens, the _people.._. Here it's just so… _noiseless_." She rolled her eyes. "…And any noise you do hear is nothing but nonsense..."

Vlad shrugged. "This country has seen a lot of war. It may seem noiseless to you but, memories of those days echo," he explained. "The Turks are long gone and yet Transylvania - my home - is little more than a vassal state. It's governed by Austria and coveted by Hungary. It would give anything for silence. For freedom."

Irina looked at him – at the dark hair curling around his ears and stippling his jaw. No wonder the air had been tense since their arrival. The Empress after all was little more than an overbearing creditor.

"…You must find your _own_ purpose for being here," Vlad told her. "If you feel you're here to be nothing but a prisoner, then that's all you'll be." He cracked the reins, driving the horse faster.

"And... what is _your_ purpose for being here?" Irina fished; it had only been intended as a polite question, but judging by the silence that followed, it was clear that it was a rather difficult one to answer. "...Other than irritating me."

Vlad chuckled. "…I have some _business_ to attend to."

"What sort of business?"

He shrugged his lips. "An inheritance of sorts," he explained. "…I've returned to claim it."

Irina hummed. "…I see," she replied, although his answer only seemed to raise more questions. They multiplied like weeds; you got the root of one only to find four more spring up around it.

"If you feel that Transylvania is lacking in society, Duchess," he went on, steering the conversation as he steered the horse around a tight corner, "it's only because no one has thought to create one."

Irina wrapped her arms around him a little tighter. She let out a nervous laugh, "Oh no, I'm not sure society hostess is where my talents lie," she said, resting her chin on his shoulder. "I _attend_ parties, Vlad. I don't host them."

He laughed. "But what about All Hallows Eve?" he asked. "Your ball was the talk of the town, from what I hear."

Irina snorted. "Oh _please_, don't tack my name onto that sorry excuse for a masquerade! You overestimate my part in it; I was practically a guest myself," she explained. She narrowed her eyes. "…You seemed to disappear early…"

Vlad raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I wasn't invited."

_Interesting_. "_Oh_. Well, it's a shame you left," Irina said.

"A shame?"

"Yes. You missed the impromptu theatrics."

"…Theatrics?"

"Yes, I'm sure you've heard about all those young women being murdered–"

Vlad's jaw clenched. "…Yes."

"Well, another one was attacked that very evening," Irina told him, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "…She'd practically bled out by the time she was carried into the palace. Caused quite a stir."

He shrugged his lips. "And you were under the impression that Transylvania was without theatre."

"Honestly, it was a farce. The Doctor wanted to bleed her and the Archbishop wanted to _exorcise_ her," she rambled irritably. "Idiots, both of them. She would have died if I hadn't stepped in."

"I thought you were a Duchess, not a doctor," Vlad scoffed.

Irina pulled a face. "Can't I be both?" she asked him honestly. When she saw his lips pull upwards, she frowned and sighed. "…You find me ridiculous."

"No. Not at all," he quickly replied. "I'm just… _surprised_. I didn't think such a thing was possible."

It wasn't long before they reached the river, and from there it was simply a case of following its bubbling, icy waters back to Hermannstadt. In no time at all, the crumbling walls and gates appeared and soon they were trotting through the quiet, dimly lit streets – the smell of well-stoked fires and garlic hanging in doorways carrying on the wind. Vlad tugged on the reins as the horse drew up outside the Governor's Palace and released a weary grunt.

Irina gazed up at the candlelit windows as Vlad threw his leg over and slipped down from the saddle. She hoped her father hadn't been too worried about her.

"Here we are," Vlad said as he reached up and wrapped his hands around her waist, smoothly guiding her down onto her feet.

Irina reached down and grasped his thick upper arms, and when her boots hit the cobbles she looked up at him and smiled sheepishly. "…Thank you," she said as she stepped out of his grasp and smoothed down her skirts. "It seems you _are_ a gentleman after all."

Vlad seemed uncomfortable at the suggestion. "…Not by choice," he replied, pulling his lips into something between a frown and a smile. "You seem to draw it out of me."

Irina grinned as Folie barked and rushed off through the gate to the inner courtyard and stables, eager to go and find Scapino and her place by the warm fire.

She grabbed the reins and was about to walk away when she suddenly remembered her own manners. "…Would you like to come in? The least I can do is offer you a drink as thanks," she asked. "You must be _freezing_."

Vlad's dark eyebrows bounced. He looked down at her, staring at the blood painting her cheek, "That's very kind of you, but there's something I must… _attend_ to. Now that I'm here in town I may as well see to it."

Irina looked down as she idly smoothed a hand across the horse's neck. "...Oh. Alright," she replied, almost disappointed.

Vladislaus took her gloved hand and slowly lifted it. He pressed his lips against her leather-clad knuckles, his eyes holding her gaze. "I'll see you again, Lady Irina."

Irina felt his touch through the leather glove - through the frost nipped skin and sinew – right through to her bones. She stared after him as stepped away from her and wandered off into the dark square.


	7. Seven

_ **Hermannstadt, November 1769** _

By the end of November, Fiebe had recovered enough to be moved into the smaller room adjoining Irina's bedchamber. The wounds on her neck had slowly scabbed over and fallen away to reveal a red, silvery crescent just below her ear, and although she was still _very_ weak, she was at least able to sit up in bed and take small walks around the room. She spent her days moving between the bed and the easy chair near the fireplace, bundled in furs to prevent her from catching a fever.

Realising that her patient was getting bored of resting _(and that tongues were beginning to wag over why the girl lingered at the palace)_, Irina had given her some stockings to darn and some minor repairs to make to the gowns she'd brought from Vienna. It was only supposed to be a little busy work – something to keep her seated and her mind off the attack – but when it became clear that Fiebe had a talent for embroidery, Irina sent one of the maids out to the market for some coloured, silk thread. She handed Fiebe one of her old satin stomachers – a blank canvas to do whatever she liked – the girl had immediately set to work.

As Irina moved back and forth between the two rooms – helping the washerwoman change the linens and the maids move around her belongings – Fiebe sat in the window with Folie snoozing at her feet _(the dog had barely left the girl's side since she'd arrived)._ She was carefully stitching the pink petals of a limping carnation onto the stomacher, glancing up from her work every so often to look out of the window at the snowy mountains in the distance.

Irina was in the middle of folding a clean chemise when she strolled over to the window and quietly peered over Fiebe's shoulder. The small triangle of cream-coloured satin had been completely transformed with intricately stitched blue cornflowers, leafy vines and delicate pimpernels. "…Oh, that's beautiful," she said, dropping a hand onto the girl's shoulder.

Fiebe flinched at her touch, cowering towards the window slightly. She was still very thin – so thin, in fact, that her shoulder blades poked through her skin like wings.

Irina frowned; the visible wounds had begun to heal but it was clear that there were other, much deeper wounds that would take longer to heal. "…I'm sorry," she said, her brown eyes falling on Fiebe's scar and the collection of old burns across her arms. She slowly stepped in front of her and gestured to the empty space on the windowsill. "…May I?"

There was confusion in Fiebe's blue eyes as she looked up, but she nodded anyway. She reached up and pulled her intricately plaited tail of long, strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder – smoothing it over the scar – and she tucked her legs up to make space.

Irina smiled. "Thank you," she said as she bundled her skirts and scooted into the seat beside Fiebe.

It was a little awkward; they barely spoke the same language let alone had anything in common to talk about, and so Fiebe carried on stitching quietly, lifting her glassy eyes every now and then as she waited for Irina to say something. She flinched at every movement, fingers shaking as she gripped the needle.

Eventually, Irina took a breath. "…Where did you learn to embroider like that?" she asked, pointing at the needle as it emerged from the fabric – swooping at the end of a piece of pink thread.

Fiebe looked up and blinked nervously.

Irina hesitated; the girl had no idea what she was talking about. "…_Oh_ – um…" She mimed stitching. "…Where did you learn to do this?" she asked, pointing at the stomacher.

The washer woman – who was busy stripping the bed and putting on fresh sheets – suddenly spoke up. "Ducesa vrea să știe unde ai învățat să coasă," she shouted over to Fiebe as she wrestled with a bundle of dirty linen.

Fiebe nodded, then lifted her shy gaze. "…My mama. _She_ learn it to me," she replied in a small voice, carefully reinserting the needle. She pulled it through. "…Mama mea a fost o croitoreasă. Tatăl meu a fost croitorier în Brașov."

Irina turned to the washerwoman for help. There was something pleasant about the way Fiebe spoke her own language, her small voice tripping and whispering over the sounds.

The woman sighed and shook her head. "She says that her mama was a seamstress and her father was a mantua maker," she explained as she smoothed a clean sheet onto the mattress of the vast bed. "They worked in Brașov."

"Oh, Brașov! I see," Irina replied with a smile, which slowly faded when she realised that it had all been spoken in the past tense. She suddenly realised that the only person who had come to see Fiebe was her brother. Where were their parents, she wondered. "Your mother and father – are they still in Brașov?"

Fiebe shrugged her shoulders. "…They die, Ducesa," she replied, looking down. "They get, uh… _febra_? You know this word?"

Irina shook her head. She didn't, but it sounded a lot like, "_Fever_?"

"Yes, _fever_," Fiebe replied with a timid smile – happy that Irina had actually understood her – but then she sighed and frowned. "They get fever. Very quick, so…"

Irina's shoulders dropped. "…I'm so sorry," she said.

She reached out to touch Fiebe's hand but found it immediately – _instinctively_ – tugged out of reach.

Irina persevered gently. She wasn't sure why the girl was so afraid of her, after all, hadn't she saved her life? "…So, it's just you and your brother now?"

Fiebe looked at her blankly, then shook her head. She didn't understand, "Sorry, Ducesa, I do not know–"

The washer woman intervened. "Ducesa a întrebat dacă aveți mai multă familie," she translated as she roughly tucked in the corners of the sheet. She waved her free hand, "Sau este doar tu și fratele tău?"

Fiebe thanked her, then nodded at Irina. "Me and my brother, yes," she said, before turning to the washerwoman and explaining further in her own tongue.

The washerwoman duly translated. "She says that after her parents passed away, they couldn't afford to live and so were forced to become serfs."

Irina sighed and shook her head. "That's awful," she replied. No wonder the girl and her brother were so close. "He's been so worried about you – your brother. Ferenc, wasn't it?" Irina told her as she recalled the way he'd carried Fiebe limp in his arms into the ballroom on All Hallows Eve, so desperate for someone to save her.

It had been incredibly touching the way he'd come to visit her every day, just to check that she was being well cared for. With the help of the washerwoman, Irina found out from Fiebe that her brother Ferenc worked on one of the estates just outside town. He was hired to keep wolves and foxes out of the hen houses and was regularly sent out to set snares and hunt deer in the forests surrounding town. Perhaps she'd buy his freedom and poach him for herself, Irina pondered; he'd be the perfect escort to take her hunting. She'd always wondered what it would have been like to have had a sibling; she'd always been a little bit jealous of Amalia and her regiment of brothers, sisters and spares.

"You're very lucky to have each other," Irina said. "Thank God he found you when he did."

Fiebe listened as the washerwoman translated, then she looked down. "Yes, Ducesa," she replied.

Irina sighed impatiently. "You really don't need to be frightened of me, Fiebe," she insisted. "I don't care what everyone's saying, I'm not going to throw you out on the street. No one's claimed ownership of you so as far as I'm concerned, you're a free woman."

When the washerwoman explained, Fiebe blinked tearfully at Irina. She slid the sewing off her lap and fell to her knees, right beside Folie. "Thank you, Ducesa."

Irina raised her eyebrows.

"You are kind," Fiebe sniffed. "…You save me."

"I suppose so," Irina replied with a shrug. She patted the seat next to her, "Come on now, up off the floor."

Fiebe erupted with laughter as she slipped back into her seat. Her eyes were bright as she waved her hand around, "N-am crezut niciodată că o Ducesă ar fi atât de interesată de _pipi_ mea!"

When the washerwoman suddenly started laughing too, Irina frowned – suspecting that she was being mocked. "What? What is it?" she demanded.

The washerwoman wiped tears from her eyes, hugging one of the pillows from the bed to her vast chest. "…She _says_ that she never thought a Ducesa would be so interested in her piss!"

Irina's mouth dropped open as she looked at Fiebe, before she threw a hand to her mouth and cackled.

She'd once read in a book that you could tell how sick a person was by the colour of their urine, and so she'd been incredibly strict about checking Fiebe's chamber pot every day. "Well, I haven't _enjoyed_ looking at your… your _piss_ every day, Fiebe!" she replied. It was nice to see her smiling; surely that was as good a sign as any that she was finally bouncing back. "But you're welcome anyway. I'm just glad that you're on the mend."

Although now that her patient was on the mend and no longer needed her infusions and watchful gaze, Irina wasn't sure what she was going to do with herself. She certainly didn't fancy another hunting expedition with Prince Lupesci. Although, she wouldn't have said no to bumping into Vlad again.

She was surprised he hadn't come calling for her. He didn't seem the sort to be bothered by politics and social rigmarole. Of course, if he did come she'd immediately have him turned away – just to tease him a little bit and get her own back a little for the way he'd behaved in the forest. She'd enjoy watching him from her window with her opera glasses as the door was shut in his face and he was sent away.

Fiebe grinned at her as she returned to her embroidery. "I do more of this, if you like it, Ducesa," she said, gesturing eagerly with the needle. "Pot face _multe_ lucruri. Si părul," she added, picking up her plait of fair hair and twisting it up onto her head into a bun. "…See this?"

The washerwoman scoffed as she threw down one pillow and started on the next. "Watch out, mistress; she's after a job."

Fiebe frowned. "Nu vreau să mă întorc la vechea mea stăpână," she said, pretending to spit. "Curvă!"

Irina was confused by the sudden outburst.

"Oh dear. Sounds like she didn't get on very well with her last mistress," the washerwoman said, raising her eyebrows.

Irina narrowed her gaze; she _was_ looking for a lady's maid. Now there was a thought. "…I think we might be able to think of something," she told Fiebe with a wink. "Leave it to me. You just concentrate on getting better, alright?"

It was at that moment that a maid knocked on the door and timidly stepped into the room. "Excuse me, mistress," she said, dipping into an awkward curtsey. "A gentleman's come calling; he's downstairs asking for you."

_Vlad_. Irina practically leapt to her feet and quickly brushed her skirts down. _Finally!_ "Alright," she told the maid. "Tell him I'll be down in a minute," she blurted, completely forgetting her plan.

The maid dropped a curtsey, then left.

Irina rushed over to her vanity and stooped to peer at her reflection. She wasn't exactly dressed to receive anyone; she was wearing one of her simpler blue gowns with a lace fichu tucked into the neckline and her hair – oh God, her hair! – it hadn't been dressed and was tumbling in a tangled mess over her shoulders. She quickly ran her brush through it until it crackled, pinched her cheeks, spritzed on some perfume and shoved in a pair of diamond earrings – all while Fiebe watched her curiously from the window.

Just as she was about to leave, the washerwoman stopped her. "…Excuse my asking, mistress," she said as she dropped the bundle of dirty sheets into her basket.

"What is it?" Irina replied impatiently.

The woman walked over. "The girls downstairs – they talk. They say you know a little about healing. Well, you did bring the girl back from the dead, didn't you?"

Irina frowned and made a mental note to have a stern word with the maids; she didn't want her interest in healing getting around. She'd already made an enemy of Doctor Tarsus. "I wouldn't listen their gossip if I were you," she warned.

"It's my hands, see," the washerwoman said, wringing and scratching them. "They plague me something terrible, mistress. I've been to the other doctors in town and they always send me away saying it's God's curse–"

"…Let me see," Irina said, rolling her eyes.

The washerwoman held out her hands. They were so dry they'd become raw, the skin blistering and flaking away. In some places – particularly around her knuckles – the skin was broken and bleeding. They looked as if they'd been burnt.

Irina dropped her hands and tutted. "You didn't think to show me _before_ you put your raw hands all over my clean bedding?"

"…Sorry, mistress," the woman replied, looking down at her poor hands.

Irina sighed; she'd seen the same rash in one of her books. "It looks like Willan's Lepra – your skin is disagreeing with something you've recently touched," she told the woman, recalling something she'd once read about skin conditions. Laundress' tended to suffer from it because they frequently came into contact with lye when they were washing clothes. "Do you use lye?"

"Always, mistress."

Irina nodded. "Well, that's probably what's causing it," she told her. "You need to wear leather gloves while you're doing–"

"Wear gloves, she says! How am _I_ 'sposed to afford leather gloves, mistress!" the woman grunted.

"Well, in the very least you need to make sure you _thoroughly_ wash your hands in clean water straight after coming into contact with it. But you'd be better off using something _other_ than lye in future," she explained.

"I _have_ to use it."

Irina hesitated. She knew she could help, but equally knew she shouldn't. What if it got back to Vienna that The Little Duchess was Doctoring? The engravers at The Chronicle would be in a frenzy. Still, she couldn't seem to help herself. "…I _suppose_ I could make you a balm – it'll help with the inflammation."

The washerwoman was overjoyed. "Oh! Would you, mistress?"

Irina thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "But you mustn't tell anyone, understand?" she said as she went back over her dresser and pulled out a pair of old riding gloves from one of the drawers. "Here. Wear these for now – when you're working and when you're outside – I doubt the cold weather is helping much either," she told the woman, waving them at her. "I'll see if I can have the balm ready for you when you return to fetch the linens next week."

The washerwoman snatched the gloves and held them to her vast chest. "God bless you, mistress!" she cheered as she watched Irina hurry towards the door. "What do I owe you?"

"Consider this payment for your services in translation," Irina replied with a wink as she slipped out.

* * *

Irina's head was full of herbs as she left her bedroom and hurried down the corridor. She'd consult the books later to find the perfect ingredients for her balm, but she had a mind to use Aloe Vera. Aloe to calm irritation, perhaps some Calendula Flowers to soothe, and a little olive oil for added moisture. She only hoped that she'd be able to find some in the market and decided to get one of the less gossipy maids on the case once she'd seen Vlad.

_Vlad_.

He intrigued and frustrated her all in one breath. She knew it was improper to receive him, especially when she knew barely anything about him – especially his social standing – but the temptation to dance over the protocol was too strong. She'd have to be _very_ discreet.

But when she turned the corner onto the landing – skirts swirling – and saw Prince Lupesci hovering awkwardly in the entrance hall below bundled in furs, all her excitement drained.

_Oh_. _Fantastic_. "…Your highness," Irina said as she gathered her skirts and started down the staircase. "…We weren't expecting you."

The prince turned and bowed, his tepid gaze watching her as she made her way down to him. "Lady Irina," he greeted, holding out his palm. "I've surprised you."

Irina hesitated as she gave him her hand and allowed him to escort her down the last couple of steps. _Disturbed, more like_, she thought to herself. "Not at all… it's just that I'm afraid my father's not feeling well," she informed him as he laid a kiss on the back of her hand – a blunt peck. "He's taken to his bed; I wouldn't want to disturb him."

Despite the Duke's claims about fresh mountain air, his stomach pains seemed to have followed him all the way from Vienna. Some days were better than others, but the truth was that he was struggling to eat breakfast most mornings, wine gave him terrible cramps and once or twice he'd even vomited a little blood. Irina was becoming concerned; her tonics had helped before and now they were completely useless. She wondered whether he might be suffering from some sort of ulceration; clearly travelling to a new place with new food hadn't helped.

The prince narrowed his eyes. "Nothing serious, I hope."

Irina shrugged her shoulders; she hoped not. "He's had a little trouble with his stomach recently," she said. "Too much wine and red meat, I think."

"Have you sent for Doctor Tarsus?" Prince Lupesci asked.

Irina snorted, then checked herself. "No. No, I haven't," she replied. _And won't be_, she told herself. He was the _last_ person she'd go to for help.

"…Perhaps you should," the prince suggested. He shrugged his lips, "I know you two don't see eye to eye, but we can't have a governor who governs from his bed."

Irina gaze sharpened. "He'll be well soon enough, your highness. He just needs to rest," she snapped, turning away from him. "I'm sorry you've had a wasted journey; I'll tell him you stopped by."

He stopped her. "Actually, Lady Irina," he said. "…It's _you_ I came to see."

Irina turned and folded her arms. "…Me?"

His lips curled. "Your father mentioned that you play the harpsichord," he said. "I wonder, would you–"

"Perform for you?"

"Yes."

Irina shrugged her lips. "No," she replied. "Sorry."

The prince raised his eyebrows.

"Don't be offended," Irina went on quickly, smiling. "It's not about you. I just don't play to perform – not even for my father. I play only for myself – and usually only when I'm angry or upset."

Prince Lupesci hummed, and then nodded. "What about cards?" he asked. "Or do you choose to play those alone too?"

Irina pulled a face. "Sometimes," she replied. "Although I'd much rather have an opponent to beat."

"Well. I wonder then whether perhaps you might join me in the salon for a game of Marriage?" he asked, gesturing towards a door leading off the entrance hall.

Irina narrowed her brown eyes at him – at the slight smirk on his lips and the way he was looking at her. It rattled her. "…Alright," she agreed, turning on her heel and heading off towards the salon.

From the moment they sat down at opposing sides of the small gaming table near the window, Prince Lupesci was resolutely silent. He drank from his glass of wine and watched Irina's hands closely as she cut the deck and dealt six cards each, and he barely grunted when she turned over the top card and declared trumps to be clubs. Irina watched him throughout every trick, peering over her fan of cards and noting that his expression barely changed when he lost or won a hand.

By the time they reached the bottom of the deck; the prince had stolen three tricks and Irina had taken six _and_ created a marriage between the King and Queen of Spades, therefore winning the pot.

Prince Lupesci groaned as he pushed his cards into the middle for Irina to shuffle them again. A smile teased his lips, "You play well."

"Better than I play the harpsichord," Irina joked, tidying the deck by beating it against the table until not a single card was out of place. Trouncing a man who declared that he always liked to win had been sweet. She grinned, "I confess, I'm rather well-trained; in Vienna, if you don't play well, then you can become _very_ poor, _very_ quickly."

It was an interesting change to play without diamonds and notes crowding the table. During her early days at court, she'd lost most of her favourite jewels to bad hands and arrogant strategy. Everything changed however, on the night she lost her mother's favourite black pearl necklace to a masked man during a game of Mariagenspiel at a gaming house on Violet Tuesday. She'd tried to get it back of course, but failed, and was distraught and _dreaded_ telling her father who – of course – was completely furious. Any other father might have beaten her, but instead, the Duke set up his gaming table, took out a pack of cards and taught his daughter how to win – and more importantly, how to out-manoeuvre _any_ opponent.

From that moment on, Irina won far more jewels than she lost. She never managed to win back her mother's pearls though; sadly, she never saw the masked man again. _That_ was a lesson well learned.

Just as she dealt Prince Lupesci his final card, he reached out and snatched her wrist – his wolf signet ring scalding her skin.

Irina balked.

"Forgive me," he demanded, his bear-like paw swallowing her dainty wrist.

"…For what?" she asked.

The prince eased his grip and gently took her hand into his. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, his signet ring flashing. "For the way I behaved on our hunting trip."

"…Oh," she sighed. It had been _weeks_; she'd given up expecting an apology. She waved her free hand, "Please, your highness, you've no need to apologise for that; I was reckless and–"

"I _must_," he insisted. "I shouldn't have let you out of my sight."

Irina patted his hand; she was surprised how sorry he seemed. It seemed very unlike him. "It's alright, your highness–"

"Alexander," he corrected.

Irina swallowed. "…Alexander," she echoed, his familiar name sticking in her throat as she managed to slip her hand out from under his. "_Really_. Don't blame yourself; we all got swept up in the excitement of the chase. As exactly we should have." She went back to shuffling the cards. "Besides," she shrugged, "Look – I'm fine; nothing terrible happened to me. Nothing that a warm bath and a brandy couldn't fix, anyway."

The prince shook his head. "But something _could_ have happened," he told her. "Another girl was found that night on the stairs in the lower town – her throat shred like silk."

Irina swallowed a lump in her throat. "…I heard," she replied with some unease.

The prince rubbed his hand across his jaw. "It could have been you, Irina. If something _had_ happened that night I would never–"

Irina wouldn't let him finish; this softer side of Prince Lupesci was unnerving. She didn't like it, nor trust it. "But nothing did," she interrupted. "Let's just leave it at that. Shall we? As I've said, there's nothing to forgive… _but_, if it'll ease your conscience–"

"Alexander," he insisted.

Irina forced his name between her lips. "_Alexander_. Then you're forgiven."

The prince nodded and watched in silence as she began dealing out the cards. He suddenly looked at her, "That night. Who escorted you back?"

Irina's hand slowed. The edge of the card clicked as she placed it down. "…No one," she replied, avoiding his gaze. "I found my own way back."

Or at least that was the story she'd been telling everyone; she didn't like the idea of people knowing she'd been alone in the woods with a strange man – and not even her father knew about Vlad. She _certainly_ hadn't told him about the wolf; if he knew that part then she doubted he'd ever let her outside again.

But the prince didn't believe her story. "Are you sure about that?" he asked.

"Are you calling me a liar–"

"One of the guards on duty mentioned that he saw you riding with a man," the prince interrupted. "A gentleman, dressed in black."

"He's mistaken," Irina replied firmly. "I was alone."

"…You must have a _phenomenal_ sense of direction," Prince Lupesci said, tapping his fingers on the table. "I mean, to navigate your way out of a forest… and an unfamiliar one at that. In the dark, in a foreign land…"

Irina kept her eyes on the cards. "I was lucky."

"Indeed."

She decided to ignore him as she finished dealing the cards and slammed down the remaining deck. "Just as lucky as I am with a pack of cards."

"Oh, I think there's a little more to it than just luck," Prince Lupesci replied. "You said yourself; you're well trained."

Irina hesitated.

He stared at her. "...You won the last game," he said. "Isn't it a rule of Mariagenspiel that the victor may demand a kiss from the loser?"

Irina turned over the top card and raised her eyebrows. "I can't say I've ever heard of _that_ rule before, your highness, and I've played this game too many times to count," she lied. She'd never been a stickler and demanded her spoils of war, but she'd lost once and that kiss – in the dark corner of gaming house – had haunted her ever since. "Trumps will be diamonds."

Prince Lupesci scoffed. "Won't they, indeed."

Irina scooped up her cards and fanned them out. Her patience was beginning to wear thin; if he thought she was nothing more than an empty-headed Duchess with the space where her brain was meant to be weighed down by the diamonds in her ears, then why did he insist on spending time with her? "Was there some other reason you decided to stop by, your highness?"

He looked at her. "…Yes, there was actually."

"Oh, good," Irina sighed. "Well, might we set aside the small talk and skip ahead to it?"

"To the point, very well. I was hoping you might allow me to see the girl," he said as he rearranged his cards.

Irina frowned. She didn't believe in the slightest that Fiebe would open up to Prince Lupesci about her attack, but if she knew anything that could help find the brute responsible then surely it was important the prince question her sooner rather than later. She'd guarded her for long enough. "…You can try."

Prince Lupesci threw down his cards. Suddenly there was something more important than Marriage.

Irina narrowed her eyes. "…But on _one_ condition," she said. "I want to be present."

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_***"Stomacher" - **It's in the name! A stomacher was basically a triangle of fabric (usually heavily embroidered or bejeweled) that was pinned over the front of the bodice (over the stomach). Most styles of gown during the 18th century were made to be opened at the front and to show off the bodice (...and breasts. Breasts were in fashion pretty much for the whole of the 18th century. If you've seen the second season of Outlander then you'll probably remember THAT dress. Funny enough, it's not as far off reality as you might think, and - certainly in the French court at least - it was sometimes the fashion for nips to be visible and rouged - oh la la indeed). Some stomachers were so heavily encrusted that women found it difficult to even sit down. Honestly, I've no idea how women managed wearing all that gear on the daily - my ribs ached for days just from wearing and carrying the weight of my wedding dress around, so I've no idea how they coped. They must have had strong cores and spines for sure._

_***Fiebe and Romanian Phrases - **I'm not going to translate everything Fiebe says in Romanian during this chapter - the washerwoman covers pretty much everything anyway. It's all from Google Translate, which, as you know is incredibly unreliable. I'm sure there are mistakes. Consider this something of a transitional chapter when it comes to the language barrier between Fiebe and Irina._

_***"Lye" - **Lye is a chemical that was once used to wash clothes, and it's incredibly reactive and dangerous if it comes into contact with skin. In the age before Daz and Tide, lye was the soap of choice, and poor washerwomen dealt with the effects of using it for life - only burns if they were lucky, but others actually went blind from coming into contact with it._

_***"Mariagenspiel"**_ \- _You bet it's a real card game, and yes, there was a rule where the victor had to kiss the loser! (Don't forget, no Netlifx in 1770) The rest of the rules are a bit difficult to understand, but from what I gather, it's basically a bit like the card game "Trumps", but there were extra points if you joined/melded a "marriage" between Kings and Queens in the same suit._


	8. Eight

_ **Hermannstadt, December 1769** _

Irina played with the diamonds dangling around her throat as she recalled Vlad's voice whispering in her ear.

_"…I_ _f taking on the might of the Imperial army is the price for having my wicked way with the Duchess of Brunswick then, so be it… It'd be worth it."_

Perhaps he _was_ a soldier. Once, perhaps. He certainly had the strength for it, and then there was the way he'd talked about war. When she thought about the way he'd grabbed her and captured her in arms as thick and as firm as the pine trunks surrounding them, she blushed, and she couldn't help but imagine holding them - _squeezing_ them. And during the ride back to Hermannstadt, she couldn't lie and pretend that her fingers hadn't tiptoed across the flat plain of his stomach, tripping into the grooves formed by muscles that flexed as he rode the horse hard through the frosty fields.

Irina chewed on the chain of her necklace as she imagined him slicing through soldiers of the Imperial army with his sword, before – almost operatically – returning to claim his prize with their blood painting his handsome features.

"…Duchess?"

_No_... No titles, no ceremony; he'd just pull her close, brush his nose up her neck to her ear and whisper her name in that husky, battle-weary voice of his, and then…

"Irina, my dear?"

Irina sighed, "Oh, _yes_."

Frau Fleischer raised plucked eyebrows over her teacup. "My dear Duchess, are you quite well?" she asked.

Irina blinked and glanced around the room. She'd completely forgotten where she was. "…Oh," she replied, her cheeks blazing as she wondered what everyone would think of her if they knew what was in her head. Thankfully, it was her own sordid little secret. "…Excuse me; I was… I was _miles_ away. Do go on." She whipped open her fan and briskly began flapping it. "…It's a little warm in here, that's all," she added.

And _dull_. So, so dull.

Irina had been so excited when a message had arrived inviting her to the weekly evening salon of Hermannstadt's society ladies. It was hosted by Frau Fleischer – the middle-aged wife of the local judge and apparent queen of Transylvanian society _(if it could be called such a thing)_ – and it promised to be a 'gathering of like-minded ladies' and 'a place for frivolity and for the discussion of various fancies'. Having attended a few salons in Vienna and enjoyed many a lively discussion over tea about music and literature, Irina was thrilled to have been invited – but sadly so far, the only thing up for discussion was the latest local gossip. _(Admittedly, Irina was far more interested in the scandalous opera currently playing in her head...)_

Frau Fleischer – or _Liesl_ as she was better known – was the choral mistress of this concerto of chin-wagging, moving the conversation from one subject to next, from scandalous affairs to fashion faux pas.

"I was just asking how that poor serf girl is faring," she said. "It was so _kind_ of you to take her in and care for her."

The other ladies didn't seem to agree.

Irina smiled nervously. "She's very well; thank you for asking," she replied, hoping the conversation would roll away from her so she could get back to thinking about Vlad's arms and how they'd feel wrapped around her. She imagined him waiting for her to return to these pressing thoughts. She could practically see his impatient expression now; she could see the way he raised his dark eyebrows and how he clenched and unclenched his fists.

One of the other ladies shook her head. "Such a _monstrous_, scandalous thing! And so inconvenient!" she exclaimed. "It ruined such a lovely masquerade. It took my seamstress over a month to put together my gown for the occasion. It was quite wasted!"

The other women hummed and nodded in agreement.

Irina raised an eyebrow as she gingerly sipped from her cup of tea.

"Well, my dear," Liesel said to the woman. "You'll just have to have her create something equally as splendid for Christmastide! Not long to wait now!"

Helena Tarsus – the wife of the infamous _(and idiotic)_ Doctor Tarsus – lowered her teacup with a clink and narrowed her eyes at Irina. "May I ask, Duchess, which physician has been attending the girl?"

_Ah, here we go._ "…No one," Irina responded as she reunited cup and saucer with a clink. She looked around the room; she decided she might as well be honest and excuse herself since everyone knew. Besides, she was bored. _So_ bored. _Someone_ needed to sugar the tea and give it a stir. "Oh, forgive me, I thought everyone was aware; I've been attending on her myself. It was only a small wound, really, no special talents necessary – anyone could have done the same if they'd cared enough to do so."

The room fell silent.

Helena shrugged her lips. "…But you _must_ be consulting with _someone_ in regards to her treatment," she said. "Is it Doctor Farkas? Of course, my husband is the first choice of those within _our_ circle, but I've heard Farkas is the one the middling sort tend to rely on."

"…No," Irina replied with a little shrug. "It's just me… and my books, of course."

Helena raised her eyebrows. "…How odd."

Liesl smiled. "Have you made any arrangements for the girl, now that she's recovered?" she asked. "She's forever in your debt; her indenture – her _life_ – is yours now. Will you set her to work in the palace?"

"On the contrary," Irina replied plainly. "I've freed her."

Helena spluttered.

One of the young ladies sitting opposite laughed. "_Freed_ her!"

"But, isn't that a waste?"

Irina's eyes moved around the circle, from one disagreeing face to the next. She could see she was going to have to explain herself again. She smiled serenely, "Well, no one came looking for her, so I said she could leave whenever she wanted. But truthfully, I was in need of lady's maid, so I offered her the job for a fair wage. And, she accepted," she explained. "…She was very keen to prove herself; her parents are dead, and, as it turns out she's quite talented." She raised her cup and saucer and displayed her newly embroidered stomacher. It suited the pink satin gown she wore perfectly. "You see?"

The women hummed and nodded; _of course,_ her strange reasoning had been fashion-related. Well, that was perfectly understandable.

One of the women smiled. "Yes, when you find a decent lady's maid – especially one who can sew – you _have_ to snap her up!"

"I'd struggle to call that girl decent!" Helena scoffed. "I mean, quite what she was doing on the streets when she was attacked is anyone's guess. A woman out alone, at such an hour!"

Irina frowned.

As soon as she was well enough, Fiebe had thrown herself into her work. She cared for every single piece of clothing in Irina's wardrobe – adjusting hemlines, fixing moth holes, brushing furs – and ensured they were all pressed and folded and – more importantly – _stored_ correctly. When she dressed Irina's hair every morning, they spoke to each other in broken fragments of German and Romanian – teaching each other new words by pointing at objects around the room.

Liesl nodded, deciding to move the conversation along. "Speaking of fashion, have any of you seen–"

"It _terrifies_ me, ladies, to think that they haven't caught the man responsible for these attacks yet!" another lady interrupted, fanning herself furiously. "To think that he's out there, just waiting to pounce and feed on one of us like that! It quite chills the blood."

Helena looked sullen. "Such a brute," she agreed, shaking her head. "To prey on defenseless women."

"Has the girl mentioned anything or given some clue as to who he might be, Duchess?"

Irina tutted. "Sadly, no," she replied. "I was there when Prince Lupesci questioned her and – well, from the sound of it – it all happened very quickly and in the dark. One minute she was strolling across the square to meet with Ferenc – that's her brother – they were going to put flowers in the church to remember their mother and father, you see… and then suddenly she was grabbed from behind and dragged into an alleyway; she never saw the man's face."

The women all gasped and shook their heads.

"How awful!"

"Terrible!"

Helena grunted. "Perhaps it was the brother!" she suggested. "The serfs can be quite a sordid, indecent lot, you know."

Irina sent the woman a murderous look for even thinking such a thing. Ferenc seemed a kind soul; he was completely devoted to his sister.

Liesl tutted. "Still, it's comforting to know that his highness, Prince Lupesci, is on the case," she said as a footman appeared beside her with a letter on a silver tray. She swapped her teacup in favour of the letter and quietly opened it as she continued to speak. "I'm _sure_ he'll find something that will lead him in the right direction soon, ladies."

The young lady sitting in the chaise by the fire grinned. "Oh, _yes_," she purred. "If there's anyone who can hunt down that devil, it's Prince Lupesci."

Irina practically rolled her eyes.

"You're _so_ lucky to have danced with him, Duchess!" she went on. "He _never_ dances! We were all quite enthralled by it!"

The young lady sitting beside her sighed into her cup of tea. "_And_ he took her hunting, don't forget."

Irina pulled a face; she imagined that they'd all swoon in their seats if she told them about their little card game the other day.

One of the ladies chuckled. "That's because having a woman in Hermannstadt who hunts is a novelty!"

Liesl suddenly balled up the letter in her fist and threw it onto the fire. "The nerve!"

Helena looked at her. "Problem, Fraulein?"

She groaned. "That horrid woman has turned up uninvited yet again!" she complained.

The women all groaned and shook their heads at the news; clearly they knew very well who that horrid woman was.

Irina looked confused. "...I'm sorry, who?"

Liesl rolled her eyes as she snapped her fan shut. "Carmelia Carmitru," she replied. "I've not _once_ sent her an invitation and yet she turns up on my doorstep every week expecting to be let inside. She's like a stray cat!"

The women all cackled with laughter. Except Irina, who sighed.

"She might very well be the mayor's wife but I simply _refuse_ to receive her," Liesl went on. She waved her fan at the waiting footman. "Go and tell her to shoo, will you? She can sit on the doorstep crying for all I care."

Irina was horrified. "No," she interrupted. "Let her in."

The ladies all glared at her.

The footman hovered awkwardly; it might have been Frau Fleischer's salon, but Irina outranked both her and everyone in the room – her words carried more weight than theirs combined.

Liesl hesitated. She smiled nervously, "Duchess," she said, lowering her voice. "Your kindness is misplaced; that woman is a _harlot_. She should not be received by anyone."

Irina finished her cup of tea and then set it aside. She licked her lips, "She's the mayor's wife. And, harlot or not, Fraulein," she replied. "_That_ woman is the only person who was kind enough to befriend me when I first arrived here. I've been the subject of gossip enough times myself to know what it feels like."

"But Duchess, _surely_–"

Irina smiled at the footman. "Let her in."

The room fell silent – with only the sound of the footman's retreating footsteps and the crackle of the fireplace – as the women waited nervously for the stray cat to wander in and covet the cream. They shared uncomfortable glances over their fans and teacups as the footman returned and Carmelia suddenly swept into the room.

"Good evening, ladies," she purred, her blue eyes hopping around the room. "It's so lovely to see you all!"

Irina stood up and smiled. "Frau Carmitru," she greeted, smoothing a hand over her embroidered bodice.

Carmelia's eyes followed it.

"Why don't you come and sit here; you can have _my_ seat, right next to Frau Tarsus," Irina offered.

Helena looked outraged.

Carmelia opened her hands and curtseyed like a ballerina. "Thank you, Duchess," she replied with a grin as she made her way across the room and slipped comfortably into the chair. "You're too kind. Really."

"Now then," Irina asked as she made her way over to the empty chair beside Liesl. "What were we all talking about?"

Liesl shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "…I've quite forgotten."

When no one spoke, Irina decided to strike up the conversation herself. She glanced at Carmelia's gown and smiled. "Frau Carmitru," she said, her eyes sweeping over shining satin the same shade as sunflowers. "I do love your gown."

Carmelia beamed. "Oh! Thank you, Duchess," she replied as the footman stooped beside her and offered her a cup of tea. Her eyes licked him from boots to brow before she refused the tea and then waved him away, "I sent away for some beautiful Italian silks last summer that I've been turning into a whole new wardrobe. In the _French_ fashion, of course."

"Oh?"

Carmelia winked. "I happen to have a _very_ talented seamstress who's been working tirelessly to make them for me."

Irina nodded. "…Well, that colour suits you very well."

"Thank you, Duchess," Carmelia replied, smiling gratefully.

When no one joined in with the conversation or offered a new topic, Irina took a breath and trudged on alone – filling the silence with whatever subject popped into her head.

"…You wore another beautiful dress to the ball on All Hallows Eve," she said, scraping the barrel. She'd always found fashion to be an easy, inoffensive conversation starter.

Carmelia preened. "You're too kind," she replied. "Not as beautiful as _yours_, though. I'm sure everyone will agree that you looked quite stunning in that red gown–"

Irina lifted her cup and saucer as the footman filled it with fresh, steaming tea.

"–Prince Lupesci _certainly_ seemed to think so," Carmelia said. "Oh, and there was another gentleman who I saw–"

One of the other ladies suddenly found her voice. "Yes! We were just saying a moment ago that the prince seemed quite taken with her!" she said, her voice trailing away when she caught Helena and Liesl glaring at her.

Irina sighed loudly. "Now really, you _must_ stop this," she insisted. She couldn't speak for his highness of course, but to her the very idea of an attachment with such a man was unthinkable. "There's absolutely nothing going on between Prince Lupesci and I. I _promise_ you. Please, help yourselves – I won't stand in your way."

Liesl arched an eyebrow. "...Duchess, how many women in this room do you think he's danced with?"

"Or taken hunting?" another lady added.

"And we _all_ know you've been receiving him."

Irina sighed noisily; she was going to have to interrogate the maids – clearly there was a rat amongst them. "Oh _please_, you're adding one and two and making twelve," she complained as she stirred her tea. "And of course we receive him; my father _is_ the governor, after all – or have you all forgotten that?"

Carmelia's gaze was sharp. "Then do explain our miscalculation, Sparrow."

Irina blinked at her and decided that maybe she had been too kind in inviting Carmelia up. "He took me hunting, _Melia_, because my father mentioned that I had a keen interest in it, and he clearly wanted to make a gesture to please him." She scoffed and shook her head as she slid her spoon onto the saucer. "Besides, it was utterly disastrous from start to finish!"

Carmelia narrowed her blue eyes. "…What do you mean?"

_Oops_. "Nothing," Irina replied, waving a hand.

"No, do tell!" Carmelia insisted. "I smell a story!"

Irina tutted. "There's really nothing to talk about, we got separated and I had to find my own way back to town alone in the dark."

Liesl pressed her hand to her chest. "My dear!" she gasped.

Helena scoffed. "It's not a sport for ladies anyway," she grumbled. "My husband is quite insistent that women shouldn't ride at all–"

_Your husband is an idiot_, Irina was desperate to snap, but somehow managed to hold her tongue.

"–Ruins the complexion and causes miscarriages!"

The girl on the chaise shook her head. "You're lucky you didn't encounter that monster lurking about, Duchess."

Irina snorted. "He'd have earned a musket ball in his crotch if I had," she muttered into her cup without a second thought.

The women all shared a look.

Carmelia's lips curled. "…Bravo."

"Thank you," Irina replied with a smile. "Which reminds me, perhaps you should _all_ consider learning to shoot a gun. It's not that difficult; they even make small, single shot pistols these days - ones small enough to be carried around in your pocket."

"Musket balls aren't much use on a vampire," Helena grunted. "Unless they're silver, of course."

Irina sighed. "Oh, don't tell me you all believe in that nonsense too?"

One of the younger ladies sent her a funny look. "Well, what else would it be, Duchess?"

Helena agreed. "Of course, it's been a hundred years or more since we've had a vampire prowling our streets – but the signs are there, clear as the moon on Sânziene," she said. "My grandmother used to tell me stories, about her _own_ grandmother... or perhaps it was her _great_ grandmother–"

Irina yawned into her hand.

"When she was just a girl, the other girls in her village began to disappear one by one. A whole generation seemed to vanish in the space of one winter," Helena went on. "They soon discovered it to be a vampire – none other than the bloodthirsty, vengeful Vlad Țepeș returned from the grave – _Dracula _– who'd stolen the girls away one by one and spirited them to his fortress, robbing them of both their virtue and their youth to sustain his own wretched existence."

Irina rolled her eyes. It was getting more and more difficult to stay quiet. "Good lord," she muttered into her teacup.

One of the younger girls was wide eyed. "Dracula!" she gasped. "The Impaler – the devil's heir!"

"The very same," Helena replied with a nod. "And so the men of the village, they burned his fortress to the ground and drove him out of Transylvania for good... but in doing so unleashed his curse - the curse of the vampire - upon the world."

"The castle I've seen in ruins on the horizon, no doubt," Irina suggested, flourishing her hand.

Helena seemed to miss the obvious sarcasm. "Indeed," she replied. "Poenari, they call it. Once one of his many fortresses."

"Right…"

"When he was alive – long before he became a monster – his wife launched herself from one of the towers rather than be taken captive by the invading Turks," Helena explained. "They say that the loss drove him mad with anger and he made a pact with the devil to drive the Turks from these lands."

Irina shrugged her lips. "Monsters are made by men, not by the devil," she said. "…I read that once."

Carmelia smirked. "Perhaps he's come back," she crooned, thrilled by the women's gasps. "Weary from travel and _ravenous_ for the blood of young virgins. Better watch out ladies."

Liesl frowned and huffed. "_Enough_. All of you. This subject is unrefined," she interrupted, clapping her hands together. "Let's speak of it no more."

Conversation limped on until the clock on the mantelpiece chimed midnight and carriages were called. Irina couldn't wait to return home and see how her father was faring. He'd picked up somewhat within the last week; she'd concocted a new tonic for him to drink every morning made from peppermint and slippery elm bark. It seemed to have dulled the pains he'd been experiencing, and he was feeling well enough to hold meetings and travel back and forth to Brasov. Still, Irina wondered whether it might be worth sending a letter to the Empress's physician – just in case he had any better ideas.

Once she'd said farewell to everyone, Liesl quietly pulled Irina aside. "…May I ask for some advice, Duchess?"

Irina nodded as she tied her cloak and arranged it over her shoulders. "Of course, Fraulein."

Fraulein Fleischer lowered her voice. "…It's of a rather delicate matter," she explained, glancing over her shoulder. "A _medical_ matter."

Irina glanced over her own shoulder. She lowered her voice, "Go on."

"It's just… well, you seem to have a skill for it - if the rumours are to be believed… and I can't speak to my usual doctor–"

Irina narrowed her gaze. "Doctor Tarsus."

"Yes," she replied. "Because… _Well_. You see, I'm afraid he'd mention it to my husband – or worse, to Helena – and I couldn't _bear_ it if that happened; if everyone found out–"

Irina took her hand gently. "I understand," she said, seeing a chance to redeem herself and shed the gossip going around about her. "Look, as I said before, I'm not a fan of gossip. Whatever your secret is, it's safe with me – as I hope mine are with you."

"You have my word."

Irina nodded. "Then you have whatever help I can give."

Liesl touched her hand and sighed. "You're so very kind."

"Now, tell me," Irina whispered. "What's the problem?"

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_*** "Salon": **New hair, who dis? Nope, not the place you go to get your hair done, but **a gathering of people brought together by an inspiring host to discuss ideas**. They flourished in Paris during the 18th century and became the place to discuss the culture, philosophy and science of the time. One of the best things about them is that some of the most popular salons were actually organised and hosted by women! It was one of the only places where intelligent women could actually have a say and be heard on intellectual matters. Yay!_

_*** "The middling sort": The Middle Class **were just being recognised as a class unto themselves. The idea of social mobility, the notion that you could better yourself and move up the ranks in society, was very much in its infancy._

_*** "Sânziene": **A **traditional pagan midsummer festival** celebrated in Romania on __June 24 every year. I'm not going to go into too much detail here as it's going to come up later in the story._ :-)

_*** "Poenari": One of the many castles/citadels owned by Vlad the Impaler**. It's just a ruin on the top of a hill today, but you can go and visit it - as long as you're up for climbing lots and lots of steps to reach it. Just to point out, you can't actually see it from Hermannstadt/Sibiu. It's not too far from Sibiu by car, but to say you can see it in the distance is - let's just say - a massive stretch. I've used a little artistic license there. Forgive me! (I believe that Poenari appeared in Season One of Davinci's Demons? I was not a fan of the show, I gotta say - but I did see that particular episode)._


	9. Nine

Irina drummed her fingers against the windowsill of her carriage as it clattered along the frosty, winding lane leading from the Fleischer's elegant country house back towards the crumbling bastions surrounding Hermannstadt.

She was impatient to get back to the draughty palace she now called home. Impatient to return to the solitude of her bedchamber – away from all the frivolous gossip – where she could just be alone with her own thoughts and curl up in bed with one of her books, with only Folie's warm fur and soft snoring for company. And after four consecutive cups of tea _(and a thus far, incredibly uncomfortable carriage ride) _she was also rather impatient to be reunited with the porcelain chamber pot shoved under her bed.

When the carriage bumped over a pothole, Irina clamped her thighs together and growled. She thumped her fist against the roof, "Excuse me! Would you mind taking a little more care?" she shouted up at the driver from the window. "You're carrying a Duchess, not carting cattle!"

It wasn't the driver's fault, of course; the truth was that she should have taken a moment to relieve herself before leaving the Fleischer's. But by the time she'd finished talking privately with Liesl it was close to one in the morning and her bed was calling to her. It was getting more and more difficult to keep her eyes open and hide her persistent yawning and in the end she opted for a hasty getaway in favour of a moment alone with a borrowed chamber pot.

Once all the other ladies had climbed into their carriages and been spirited away into the shadows, Liesl had pulled Irina aside and dragged her into the servant's staircase for a word in private – in _German_, so none of servants would understand. As Irina perched on the bottom step, Liesl had hovered for a moment in silence – wringing her hands in her skirts.

"…So?" Irina asked, raising her eyebrows. "Are you going to _tell_ me what the problem is or are we about to play a game where I have to guess? Because it's rather late and–"

"It's difficult to say," Liesl blurted, looking away.

Irina narrowed her eyes. "…Alright," she replied with a nod. "Well, can you _try_?"

Liesl slapped a hand to her face. "Oh scheisse, this is mortifying – I wish I hadn't said anything now!" she moaned as she turned away, "Look, let's just forget about it. Forget I even mentioned anything–"

Irina reached out and snatched Liesl's hand. "_No_, we're not going to just forget about it," she insisted gently, squeezing it. "You're going to explain to me what's wrong and then we're going to try and fix it, alright? Otherwise... well, whatever this problem of yours is, it's just going to get worse."

Liesl sighed as she looked down at Irina's hand – at her elegant diamond bracelet flashing in the dull light. "But you're the Duchess of Brunswick, for goodness sake! Oh, I can't bear it!"

Irina stuck her tongue between her lips and blew.

Liesl blinked at her.

"Oh, stop it. Can't we just be two women for the moment? Just me listening to you and your problem – whatever that may be," Irina said, waving her hand as she spoke. "And no one will need to know a thing about it – I _promise_. Five minutes of embarrassment and then it'll all be–"

"It _itches_," Liesl whispered, pointing downwards.

Irina raised an eyebrow, then glanced down at the satin petticoats of Frau Fleischer's fashionable gown. "…Aha."

"…And it burns," she added, pulling a face. "…You know, when I–"

Irina lifted her hand. "I understand," she interrupted.

Liesl nodded, shifting her weight from foot to foot awkwardly. "…And well… it just doesn't _feel_ right, or look... right. Something's _definitely_ wrong; I know that much at least," she said. "And I simply can't go on fobbing Herr Fleischer off when he expects me to perform... well, you know - my _duties_."

Irina sat pondering for a moment – tapping her fingers against her chin – before she stood up and stepped towards the woman, reaching out for her neck.

Liesl flinched away. "…What are you doing?"

"Calm yourself, I'm just feeling your glands," Irina explained as she pressed her fingers underneath Liesl's jaw and softly swooped them down the column of her neck – feeling the slight swelling between the threads of muscle. "...They're a _little_ swollen… I've read that that can often be a sign of some sort of underlying contagion or infection."

"Infection?"

Irina's eyes dropped down, then bounced back up. She opened her mouth, and then closed it – biting her lip.

Liesl looked panicked. "_What_? What is it?"

"…Uncomfortable question coming, Fraulein – do forgive me," Irina said, taking a breath. She lowered her voice to a whisper, "Have you… shared a bed with anyone other than your husband recently? Or has _he_, for that matter?"

They perched on the bottom of the stairs as Liesl answered the uncomfortable question and confided in Irina. A dalliance with a soldier at the end of the summer. Summer madness, she'd called it with a small shrug of the shoulders – and although she asserted that the affair had long been over and done with, it was all too clear that she'd unfortunately been left with more than just fond memories.

Irina listened patiently but was secretly horrified. Not about the fact that Liesl had fallen into bed with a soldier – I mean, it was positively scandalous, _obviously_, but who was she to judge her? No, her only gripe was that Liesl had had the audacity to give Carmelia a hard time for _her _supposed bed-hopping – even going to so far as to ban her from her weekly salons. The hypocrisy of it! Still, Irina patted the Fraulein's hand and left with the promise that a syrup of quicksilver, liquorice, rose honey and hollyhock would have her back in the saddle _(so to speak)_ in no time at all, but also that her secret would be taken to the grave.

"How can I _ever_ repay you, Duchess?" Liesl asked as she escorted her to the door.

Irina smiled. "Your payment will be to allow Frau Carmitru to attend your salons in future," she said. "In the circumstances, Liesl – and don't be too offended by me saying so – it feels a little hypocritical to continue to shun her."

Liesl scoffed. "I could care less about those rumours, Duchess," she replied. "Not really; the reason I don't allow her to attend is because she hates us Habsburgs."

"Oh come now, that can't be true." Irina found it a little hard to believe given the way Carmelia had leapt on every opportunity to throw herself at her ever since her arrival.

"But it _is_, Duchess."

"…But _why_? Why would she?"

Liesl threw her hands up and huffed. "Your guess is as good as mine. But she's made no secret of the fact that she doesn't like me," she complained. "She _certainly_ feels as though I've trodden on those expensive shoes of hers in some way, because she's made it her personal mission to show me up at every opportunity. And I'm sure she's even convinced that husband of hers to meddle in Herr Fleischer's work as Magistrate; he seems to be undermining his judgement at any opportunity, and even collapsing any case involving the Hungarian nobles."

Irina frowned; what an allegation to make! She wondered what her father would say to that. "I'm sure she's just jealous of you, Fraulein - and I doubt that'll get any better if you continue to give her the cold shoulder," she said.

"Maybe it's just me then; she does seem fine with you. Oh, God forbid she were to ever find out about… well, _you know_," Liesl replied. "She'd ruin me."

"That won't happen."

Liesl took her hand. "...In any case, if I were you I wouldn't trust her, Duchess."

The warning rattled noisily in Irina's head as her carriage crossed the frozen river, passed through the old gatehouse and began to clamber along the narrow, cobbled streets of the lower town. They were dark and quiet; a couple of torches cast a dim glow onto the cracked, pastel-coloured masonry, while the distant sound of laughter could be heard from the drinking dens and brothels hidden away down the many passageways veering off from the main street.

She hoped that she'd be able to hold her bladder until she arrived back at the palace, but as the carriage began the climb up the hill towards the main square, she beat her fist against the roof and reluctantly asked the driver to stop. She was about to burst, and – even though she wasn't looking forward to relieving herself in the street like a stray dog – she decided that just this once it couldn't be helped. At least it was late; hopefully no one would see her.

As she stepped down into the street, she lifted the hood of her cloak and wrapped its velvet tails tightly around her. Snow was falling gently; powdering the cobbles like flour over freshly baked buns. "Wait here; I'll only be a moment," she told the driver as she ducked into the nearest passageway – protesting fiercely when he offered to escort her.

Cutting a path between two crooked buildings, the alley was dark and grew even darker the farther Irina ventured away from the main street and the flickering light from the carriage lanterns. She fumbled her way along the wall – her fingers brushing the cracked stonework and her satin mules plunging into cold, wet slush – until she found a secluded spot far from the street and not overlooked by any windows. She rolled her eyes as she hoisted her petticoats and felt the cold air sweep across the back of her thighs; it certainly wasn't her most dignified moment and Amalia would spit out her morning cup of chocolate as she read about it in one of her letters, but it was over and done with in an instant and she wouldn't think anything more of it. Relieved, Irina pulled herself back up and then lingered for a moment to sort out her skirts - a moment longer than she should have.

The attack came out of nowhere, and from behind.

One moment Irina was rearranging her cloak, and the next she was being dragged into the shadows – one gloved hand clamped firmly and tightly over her mouth, silencing her surprise. Her instinct was to struggle, to dig her feet into the ground and to thrash and wriggle like a fish on a hook – but her feet only seemed to scramble over the slippery slush of snow and ice, and her attacker's grip was so strong – so _paralysing_ – that fighting back proved useless. Still, she was determined that she wouldn't make it easy for them; she stamped her feet and bucked her body and blindly scratched and scraped in the dark, until the monster had had enough and shoved her face first into the nearest wall – pinning her body in place with one hand in her hair and the other clamped around her wrist.

She whimpered in pain as the beast wrenched her arm around her back, and then bathed her bare neck in its breath.

As yet undefeated, Irina's heart thundered in her ears as she reached down into a pocket concealed within the satin pleats of her gown and wrapped her hand around the ornate, silver barrel of her pocket pistol. It had been a gift from her father on her name day; she'd told him that she didn't need any more diamonds, and so instead he'd bought her something _useful_. Something she could use to protect herself when she insisted upon gallivanting around Vienna – to her mantua maker on the Kärntner Strasse or to the gaming houses and the opera. "You never know who might be lurking in the shadows, Liebling," he'd insisted when she rolled her eyes and told him there was really no need for it. Still, she promised him that she'd always take it with her, but all the years she'd been carrying the tiny, single shot pistol around in her skirts, she'd never found the need to use it.

...Until now.

With a quick flick of her finger and thumb, she released the safety bolt and pulled back the hammer. She fumbled the gun from her skirts, reached around her waist, aimed backwards and then fired blind.

The shot rang out in the quiet alley. It _seemed_ to hit the intended target; the attacker recoiled and stumbled backwards at least – but only for a moment. Before Irina could even pull away from the wall or consider running as fast as she could back to the carriage, the beast had pounced on her – grabbing the back of her neck and shoving her to the ground like an angry child with a doll.

Irina yelped as she tumbled forward face-first – her hands plunging into the ice-cold snow and slush and the pistol flying from her hand. She felt melted snow quickly seep through her silk bodice as she hit the ground, chilling her right through to her bones and stealing her breath away. The attacker's shadow loomed, and panic gripped her as they reached down, grabbed a fistful of her dark curls and brutishly dragged her to her feet.

As they seized her in a grip tight enough to rival a boa constrictor – hissing and snarling at her neck – Irina held her breath, shut her eyes and waited for her ruined skirts to be rucked up around her waist and for the diamonds to be ripped from her ears, neck and wrist.

And then suddenly – in a moment that seemed to drift like the snow falling around her – Irina felt her attacker let go, and she spun around just in time to see their cloaked body being flung across the dark alleyway. She watched wide-eyed as it slammed into a nearby wall, slumping to the ground in a shower of plaster and broken masonry.

Vlad stepped out of the shadows. He looked down at the limp body of the attacker and raised an apathetic eyebrow. "…You seem to have a taste for trouble, Duchess."

Irina panted as she staggered to the side and slumped against the nearest wall. She felt utterly ravaged; she was cold and wet, her velvet cloak was twisted in a mess over one shoulder, one of her diamond earrings was missing, and the intricate updo Fiebe had worked tirelessly on had been completely undone – her brown curls a riotous mane around her face. "I'm not..." she panted, seeking out his sturdy silhouette in the dark, "doing this on purpose... I promise."

Vlad stared at her, his gaze dropping to her waist where a dark patch of blood stained the side of her bodice. He frowned, "Are you alright?"

Irina nodded. She followed his concerned gaze – pressing a hand to the dark, wet stain across her ribs. She thought it was just slush or mud, but when her hand came away painted in a deep, red hue – she felt her stomach leap into her throat. When she felt no pain however, and couldn't seem to find a tear in the expensive pink silk, she rolled her eyes.

_Fucking typical_.

Irina growled as she wiped her hand on her skirts _(well, they were ruined now anyway)_, inwardly cursing her attacker not only for assaulting her, but for bleeding all over one of her favourite gowns. The nerve! Clearly the shot from her pistol hadn't been wasted; it had found its target after all – and judging by the amount of blood hemorrhaged from the wound, it had been a critical hit.

"It's not mine," she said.

"…I know," Vlad replied, his eyes lingering over the way the wet silk was clinging to her curves.

Irina blushed when she caught his heated gaze.

She immediately looked away, and as she did, she spotted the silver barrel of her pocket pistol lying half-submerged in the snow. She took a moment to rearrange her cloak and then she walked over and scooped it up. "Lucky I know how to use one of _these_. Managed to shoot the brute," she told Vlad, swinging the spent pistol around her finger. She glanced down at the body of her attacker slumped in the shadows – their identity shrouded in a black cloak and mask. "Whoever he is." She frowned as she stomped over, pulled back her foot and then kicked him hard in the ribs. "Fucking bastard."

Vlad's dark brows bounced in surprise. He smirked.

Irina swept the hair from her eyes and then turned to face him. She huffed, "Well, I suppose I should thank you," she said as she pocketed the pistol.

Vlad sent her a look. "You _suppose_?" she scoffed. "You ungrateful sow, you're lucky I was even nearby. It's not a habit of mine to rescue damsels - or rather, _Duchesses _in distress. I'm admittedly usually the cause of their distress."

Irina took a step towards him. "I'm sure." She lifted her gaze slowly, strolling upwards from the tails of his cloak, to the black waistcoat covering his broad chest, and to the pale skin of his neck and jaw. When she reached his blue eyes, she smiled, "…You know, _I_ might have a taste for trouble, as you so eloquently put it… but _you_? You seem to be frustratingly elusive one moment, and then–"

"Elusive?" Vlad interrupted, intrigued. "…How so?"

Irina dropped her hands to her hips. "Oh please, you're _clearly_ a noble and yet, you don't appear to move in any social circles – not that I've seen, anyway… I don't see you at any local gatherings or events. You told me you weren't invited to the ball on All Hallows Eve. You're _never_ in church–"

Vlad chuckled. "I'm not what you'd call a… _believer_."

Irina shrugged her shoulders. "Well, I'm not entirely sure whether I'd even call _myself_ a believer, but I still attend… Oh, unless… Well, that _would_ explain it," she rambled, suddenly taken by an idea. "Are you a Lutheran? That would explain why you seem to have a peculiar obsession with wearing black all the time."

Vlad's expression became flat. "...No," he sneered.

Irina threw up her hands and walked away. "You see! It's as if you _refuse_ to be found and then, poof! You appear out of nowhere," she complained.

"...It bothers you," Vlad realised as he followed her footsteps – looming over her diminutive frame like a tower. When she stopped and turned, he pinned her with his dark gaze. "…Why? Do you _want_ to find me?"

Irina looked up at him and puzzled over the suggestion. "…Honestly? I don't know," she answered after a moment. "You intrigue me, I suppose."

Vlad's lips curled slightly.

"Although, I wouldn't read too much into that," she added, unable to resist the urge to tease him - to push him away and then yank him back. "There's so little here to entertain me, after all."

"Still, I'm flattered, Duchess," he replied.

She eyed him coquettishly as she offered him her hand. "Well, then I should warn you; my curiosity is _famously_ tricky to pique, and almost impossible to hold on to."

Vlad took her hand and stooped to kiss it, raising the knuckles to his lips. He lifted his gaze as he pressed his lips to the fine blue veins across the back of her hand, "I have no intention of letting go of it."

"I'm also _notoriously_ difficult to please," she added, gasping slightly and feeling her whole body bristle when he nipped at her knuckles. She had to force herself to take a step back.

"...And I relish the challenge," he rasped as he chased her, closing the gap between them. His gaze waltzed over any bare flesh on show; her nape, her neck, her chest, "…Do you _want_ me to please you? I'd be _more_ than happy to oblige…"

"Yes, I imagine you would," she replied archly as she slipped her hand from his grasp.

Vlad's gaze sharpened. "Ah, so you've thought about it," he accused.

Irina smirked and hid from those penetrating eyes of his like a thief caught in the act, "That's _not_ what I–"

"Oh do tell, Duchess," he purred. "...Although, please bear in mind that I have something of a talent for exceeding expectations."

Irina scoffed, tilting her face to the side as she peered up at him through her lashes. "Pride goeth before destruction," she sung softly, quoting the bible, "and a haughty spirit before a fall."

Vlad grinned as he reached out and cupped her chin, skimming his cold thumb across her lower lip. "…Iubită mea," he husked, "The only falling I'll be doing... is into your bed."

Irina shivered, and – just like that – his gaze was suddenly too hot, the way he was touching her and talking to her _too_ familiar, and she suddenly remembered who she was, and _where_ she was. She spun from his hand and walked away, "What brings you into town at such a late hour?" she asked him, knowing that there usually only one thing that had gentlemen out and about during the early hours of the morning. She glanced back at him from over her shoulder, "I'd love to know how you came to be _here_… in this dark alleyway of all places…"

"I could ask the same of you, Duchess," Vlad replied. "…It's _long_ past your bedtime, I think."

Irina tutted. "…You're right."

"I'd be _more_ than happy to escort you there."

"If you _must_ know, I was attending a salon near Hammersdorf. It overran a little, the hostess held me hostage to have a word about a private matter, and then I had to…" she explained, stopping short.

Vlad raised his eyebrows.

Irina snapped her mouth shut. She blushed, "I believe I asked _you_ first."

He laughed. "I fear I will lose that air of mystery you're so fond of if I tell you," he said, noticing how she was shivering. "Besides, you're cold; I think perhaps it's time you returned home."

"Perhaps," she agreed with a nod, snuggling beneath her cloak. She couldn't wait to get out of her soiled clothes. "But wait, what on earth are we to do with _him_–"

Irina felt a cold shudder as she looked down to discover that her attacker's body was gone. Her breath stuck in her throat as she quickly glanced around the dark alley from wall to wall, searching for their shadow. It was only when she turned to alert Vlad that she saw the beast, leaping at him from the darkness and releasing an otherworldly scream as they thrust the blade of a small dagger into his shoulder.

Vlad snarled like a bear as he whipped around to face his attacker. But he'd barely set eyes on him when the masked man suddenly vanished on the breeze – stirring up a swirling wake of snowflakes in his path leading out from the alleyway.

Irina gaped as she met Vlad's furious gaze; she'd never seen a horse or a deer run that fast, let alone a human.

...

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

** _"Scheisse"_ _:_ ** _ "Shit", but I think you probably guessed that one._

_**Liesl's little "problem"**: I decided not to go into too much detail on this one but hopefully you'll have kind of got the gist - and that gist is that she picked up an STD. As you can imagine, sexually transmitted infections were pretty commonplace during the 18th century because hardly anyone practiced safe sex - either due to religious reasons or downright ignorance. There were condoms ("cundums") made from sheep guts available, but they weren't widely used. If you did happen to catch an STD, it would be near impossible to treat because they didn't have antibiotics. **Syphilis** \- "The French Pox" - was a real problem and resulted in a very slow, very painful, very disgusting (i.e. end of your nose dropping off) death. The problem was that Doctors muddled the symptoms of the disease with other STDs like Gonorrhea, and there was just a general lack of understanding when it came to venereal diseases. Doctors traditionally "treated" them with pure mercury or some kind of mercury-based infusion - which might ease symptoms for a while, but would inevitably end up doing more harm than good. **"Blue Mass"** \- a syrup of quicksilver (mercury), liquorice, rose honey and hollyhock is exactly what Irina prescribes for Liesl - but it would only really have served to mask her symptoms, unfortunately. Until penicillin was discovered, doctors (even the best, well meaning ones) were pretty clueless._

_**Irina's "call of nature":** Just as a guide, Versailles - which was considered one of the most elegant and architecturally advanced palaces in Europe didn't even have a public toilet. Men and women had to stand around and tolerate court rituals and ceremonies for hours on end, and if they needed to answer a "call of nature" they basically just had to find a quiet corner and do their thang. If you've seen Versailles Season 2 (such a good show, I'd totally recommend it if you love a good bodice ripper) then you'll remember the heavily pregnant Marquise de Montespan having to hurry off to relieve herself in a corridor. The palace stank, as you can imagine!_

_**Irina's Pocket Pistol:** Our girl mentions in Chapter 8 that the ladies of Hermannstadt might want to consider arming themselves with a pocket pistol and tada, here we have one. These tiny single shot pistols (sometimes called **"Muff Pistols"** because they were small enough to hide inside a lady's muff (ohbehaveyou)/hand warmer) really did exist and are SO FRIGGING COOL. Let's call them the pepper spray of the 1770s, shall we? During the 18th century there was a massive spike in highway robbery and highwaymen, and so nobles started carrying these tiny pistols around with them to protect themselves and their valuables - even the ladies. Of course, they were only as good as their owner's aim. So if you were a bad shot and couldn't hit a barn door with a banana, then you were in big trouble._

_**Dracula the Lutheran:** Lutheranism is a branch of **Protestantism**. Irina makes a bit of a joke about Vlad wearing black all the time because in contrast to Roman Catholic and Orthodox priests wearing colourful robes, Protestants traditionally rejected all that glitz and glamour which they saw as a sign of the wealth and corruption of the Catholic Church. (side note: I'm pretty sure the real Vlad was actually a Catholic) Empress Maria Theresa and her children were devoutly Roman Catholic - as was much of the Habsburg Court. She was suspicious of Protestants and actually expelled a load of them from Austria to Transylvania. As soon as the Habsburgs took hold of the region, they began promoting Roman Catholicism and suppressing Protestant Nobles. They basically encouraged religious strife in the region to weaken the old Hungarian Regime that was clinging on. We're within the Age of Enlightenment where a lot of people were beginning to quietly turn away from religion and seek answers to life's big mysteries in science, however, religion still played a massive role in everyday tradition and routine - which is why Irina makes the point that she doesn't necessarily believe, but still attends (attending church would have been a weekly social event, remember!). To not attend would have cast suspicion on moral character._

_**"Iubită mea":**_ _Lots of translations for this one. It can mean anything from **"My Lady"** to "My sweetheart" and even "My Paramour", but I think my favourite of all the translations has to be "My Flame". *sigh*_

_**Hammersdorf:** A small village just outside Hermannstadt._


	10. Ten

The driver was leaning against the carriage, swigging from a flask when Irina finally emerged from the alleyway, and when he took in her dishevelled appearance – her hair tumbling over her shoulders and her fine gown soiled with blood, snow and mud – he spat a shower of brandy into the street.

"My lady, what–!"

Irina waved a hand and rolled her eyes. "It's _fine_, I'm _fine_."

The driver became alarmed when Vlad stepped from the alleyway like a looming shadow – the dagger still embedded in his shoulder. Without a second thought, he dropped his flask into the snow and – with a shaking hand – drew the pistol tucked into the belt of his uniform. "Are _you_ the monster what's responsible for this?" he'd shouted at him, nodding once at Irina. "You'll regret it when you find out who she is, you know!"

Vlad sent the driver a pathetic look.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Irina groaned as she stomped through the snow towards the driver. She placed her hand on the gun and lowered it. "He _saved_ me, you fool."

The driver glanced uncertainly over her shoulder at Vlad and the dagger sticking out of the shoulder pad of his elegant black cloak. "…There's a knife sticking out his shoulder."

"You're quite right," Irina replied with a nod. "And – just so we're clear – it's going to remain lodged in his scapula until we're back at the palace and I can go about removing it _safely_," she insisted, talking to the driver but shooting the warning at Vlad.

He sighed. "If it must."

She turned back and arched a dark brow. Her lips curled, "Doctor's orders."

The three of them stood there in silence for a moment; the snow drifted softly around them as the driver hovered on the spot – not really knowing what he was expected to do.

Irina pointed her eyes at the carriage, then sighed impatiently. "I'll open the door myself then, shall I?" she barked.

The poor driver flustered and sprung to action, wading through the snow piled at the side of the street as he moved to open the carriage door. "Apologies, my lady."

"_Home_… and quickly," Irina commanded as she picked up her damp skirts and climbed inside the cabin.

The driver looked unsure when Vlad followed his mistress into the carriage and closed the door, but any objection he had was quickly silenced when Irina poked her head through the window and firmly warned him that he wasn't to breathe a word of what he'd seen to _anyone_.

As the carriage rambled up the hill and though quiet streets towards the governor's palace, Irina's mind raced. Now that she was out of danger, the minutiae of the attack – small, strange details that had been drowned out in the moment – suddenly came into focus.

She shook her head. "He was _dead_…" she muttered. She looked at Vlad, "I mean... I _shot_ him, didn't I?" she asked, gesturing to the vast blood stain across her bodice.

He was lounging opposite her looking _very_ comfortable given the circumstances, with one riding boot propped across his thigh, an arm resting against the windowsill and the length of his black cloak spilling over the seat around him. "It certainly seemed that way."

Irina raked a hand through her ruffled mane of brown curls. "And even supposing it might take _hours_ to succumb to such a wound… he hit that wall with _such_ force… force enough to shatter every bone in his body," she thought out loud, frowning as she recalled how Vlad had flung the man across the alleyway as if he were snowball. She looked at him, her eyes drifting from his arms to his broad shoulders. "…You're incredibly strong."

Vlad's lips curled proudly for a moment, then fell flat when he noticed the ornate handle of the blade sticking out of his shoulder. He sighed.

"…And _he_ was incredibly fast," Irina mumbled on, tapping the tapered ends of her fingers against her lips as she peered out through the window into the night.

"As am I," he grumbled as he stared down his nose at the dagger. He sent the infuriating woman sitting opposite him a scolding look, "I foolishly allowed myself to be distracted."

Irina wasn't listening. "I just don't understand... _You_ saw him; I wasn't imagining it, was I?"

Vlad ground his teeth together as he wrapped his hand around the hit of the dagger.

"He was _impossibly_ fast," Irina went on, practically panting as she spoke aloud every single impossible thought that popped into her head. "…I mean, have you ever _seen_ such a thing? It was bizarre; one moment he was standing right there, and then the next he'd–"

When she glanced across the cabin and suddenly understood why Vlad wasn't responding to her, her words trailed away.

She blinked at him and sat forward. "…What do you think you're doing?"

Vlad gripped the windowsill with one hand and frowned. "What does it look like? I'm removing this ridiculous dinner knife from my chest."

"That _dinner knife_ is about a millimetre away from a rather important artery, Vlad," Irina snapped. "You need to wait; if you pull it out now - and in a moving carriage of all places - then you're probably going to sever that artery and not only bleed all over my carriage-"

"And wouldn't want that, would we?" Vlad snarked.

"-And quite possibly bleed to death in the process, so please, just–"

He slowly raised an eyebrow as she spoke, and – unperturbed – held her gaze as he closed his fingers tightly around the handle of the dagger and then gave it a sharp tug. He growled as the blade scraped along his clavicle and emerged slick with blood. He grinned as he let go and allowed it to clatter to the floor between them.

Irina rolled her eyes. "Oh, you utter arschgeige!" she complained as she threw herself across the carriage.

She pounced on him, quickly rummaging through the layers and layers of damp, satin skirts to find her pocket and the silk handkerchief that was lurking inside it. Without even the slightest hesitation, she unclasped Vlad's cloak, opened up his coat, and then undid his waistcoat and shirt – tearing at the black velvet and bloodied silk until her fingers crawled across his tepid flesh. She climbed her fingers from his taut stomach to his sternum, swept her hand over the firm plate of muscle and flesh that made up his upper pectoral and then found the wound – a small puncture just below the collar bone that was bleeding sluggishly, like honey.

Irina slapped the handkerchief against it - beating his chest like a drum.

Vlad snarled.

"Do you _want_ to die?" she scolded.

He glanced down at her hand, then up at her. He shrugged his lips, "There are worse ways to go."

"...Your skin is cold..." she said, frowning with concern as she smoothed her other hand under his shirt and pressed the palm flat against his chest. _Strange_, she thought, when she couldn't seem to feel his heart murmuring beneath her fingertips. "Do you feel feverish at all?" she asked, moving the hand from his chest to his head - brushing away the threads of dark hair hanging over his forehead.

He nodded up at her. "Although... I'm not entirely sure I can blame the wound for it."

"Why?" she asked, finally looking at him.

When Irina's brown eyes met with his amused expression – hovering barely an inch in front of her – she gulped. She was perching over him – practically straddling him – with one leg kneeling up on the velvet seat and the other standing in between his wide-open thighs. He was so close that she could smell the musk of his skin and could see – with _intricate_ detail – every dark stitch of hair framing his face. He smelled like frosty November mornings back in Vienna; crisp and fresh, with the distant scent of smoldering pyres of fallen leaves. His eyes though – they were snares for the soul; she tiptoed carefully across the icy, grey flecks floating in each iris only to tumble head-first into the empty, black pits.

Irina followed Vlad's dark gaze as it dropped between their bodies to her bodice; to the diamonds swinging around her throat, the muddy, bloody smear across her breasts and the stain slurping at her ribs.

And suddenly, there it was. Desire. That familiar feeling coiling tightly in her body; the sensation of being wound tighter and tighter like a toy, until the pressure - the urge to give in to it - became too much and there was nothing left to do but to stop resisting and let go.

Irina released a shaky breath.

It would have been so easy to close the gap. So easy to sink and settle against him, to curl up in his lap like an affectionate cat and press her body up against his. It would have been be so easy to wrap her arms around his shoulders and rake her fingertips through that raven black hair of his. She'd hold her breath and close her eyes as he reached up to untie the satin ribbon holding her cloak around her neck, only to replace it with his lips as soon as it tumbled to the floor of the carriage. He'd kiss and bite her shoulders and neck and collarbone, growling when she gripped his shoulder and accidentally clawed her fingers into the wound, and… no one would have to know about it. _No one_. They were alone in a carriage clattering through quiet, empty streets. No one would see through the misty windows if she chose to press her lips against his, or notice if his hand gathered up the muddy hem of her skirts and bunched them around her waist. And _no one_ would raise an eyebrow if he were to move his cold hand over the garter holding up her stocking and smooth it onto her bare thigh.

"...Irina," he whispered.

Irina held her breath.

_No one_ would have to know.

Not now. Not ever.

Vlad dropped his head back and made a feast of her with his eyes. He reached out and cupped her neck, "What is it?" he whispered, joining her freckles with his eyes and smoothing his thumb along her jaw. "What dark thoughts are swirling in that head of yours…?"

When his hand dropped and brushed over the diamonds around her throat, Irina frowned. And – just like that – she remembered who she was. She was the Duchess of Brunswick. A representative of the Empress and the Habsburg Court. The _Governor's_ Daughter. She had a reputation.

A governess of hers growing up had likened her reputation to a barn egg once. Something fragile that she'd forever have to carry along with her; she'd have to cradle it in her hands, never let it drop and never - under any circumstances - trust anyone to hold it for her. Because once a crack began to appear, it was impossible to prevent a scramble.

Irina tutted as she snatched Vlad's hand, "If you want to live, you'll keep your hand to yourself," she told him, her eyes fixed to his lips. She pressed his hand firmly to the handkerchief over the wound, raising an eyebrow as she said, "Right _here_. Plenty of pressure."

Vlad sighed impatiently as she stood up and stumbled back to her own seat. He watched as she neatly arranged her filthy skirts around her – blushing as she smoothed her hands over her thighs and focused her attention on the window.

It wasn't long before the carriage slowed and passed through the heavy iron gates leading into the courtyard of the Governor's Palace. The windows were in darkness; the Duke, Fiebe and all the servants had long since retired to bed. As the horses drawing the carriage shuffled to a halt outside the back entrance, Irina called up to the driver to go and rouse Fiebe and a handful of maids and footmen. She told him to tell them to take hot water and dressings into the parlour.

Irina looked at Vlad. "No one knows about what happened in the woods the other day," she admitted. She glanced off to the side, "I told them that I found my way back alone, so… I'd appreciate if you didn't mention it to my father... or anyone else for that matter."

Vlad sent her bored look. "And, why is that?"

"Because," Irina replied with a shrug, "I wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea. Reputations are rather fragile things, I'm afraid."

"And yours is important to you, I suppose," he said.

Irina looked at him as if he were mad. "_Very_," she replied. "A wandering hand and a few well-chosen words could ruin a woman like me."

"…And we wouldn't want that," Vlad replied. Before adding, with a smirk, "Or would we?"

Irina sighed, but allowed the smirk tugging at her own lips. She raised a haughty eyebrow, "_No_, we wouldn't."

Vlad shifted in his seat. "…Shame," he said as he opened the carriage door with his boot. He snatched up his cloak and folded it over one arm. "You've no need to worry, anyway; I won't be coming in."

Irina blinked at him. "…What? But, what about your wound?" she asked. "Vlad, I need to make sure there isn't any lasting damage, clean it, _close_ it–"

"It's fine, I'm _fine_," he said, throwing the handkerchief at her before he stood up and climbed out of the carriage.

Irina caught the handkerchief and looked down at the thick, dark blood staining it. She balled it in her fist, then gathered her skirts quickly. "...Are you mad?" she snapped as she chased after him. "You have to let me see to it!"

He only managed a few steps across the cobbles before Irina hooked his arm and stopped him, stepping into his path.

"You can't just leave it, Vlad – it's an open wound," she insisted as she reached for his shirt collar. She tugged at the bloodied fabric, pulling it open until his pale skin shone in the moonlight, "I mean, just look at it–!"

Irina's eyes washed over his blood-mottled skin, searching for the knife wound that had been dribbling fresh blood barely minutes before. She frowned as she strolled her fingers across his chest – tracing the sloping wall created by his collar bone before slipping down onto his chest... but the wound wasn't there. She couldn't find even the slightest _hint_ of a scar, let alone the oozing puncture wound she'd seen before.

She dropped her hand as if she'd been scalded. "That's… but that's impossible," she muttered as she met Vlad's stern gaze.

He straightened his collar, then wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. "…As I said," he told her as he clasped it. "I'm fine."

Irina stood there in silence, staring at him – waiting for him to explain – until a footmen suddenly burst through the door into the courtyard, rushing out to greet them, half-dressed.

Vlad looked at him, then at Irina. "…You should go," he told her as he took a step back. Adding with a smile, "And try to stay out of trouble. You're proving to be dangerous distraction."

Irina nodded, watching – dumbfounded – as he strode across the courtyard and then disappeared into the night in much the same mysterious manner as he had appeared.

* * *

Even though the palace had been in darkness when the carriage pulled into the courtyard, it quickly became ablaze with light as Irina was hurried upstairs and into her bedchamber where she was met by Fiebe and the Duke. Their eyes widened when they took in her undone hair, muddied clothes and the blood staining her bodice. The dogs whimpered as they sniffed around her skirts; Folie leaping up to give her mistress a few worried swipes of her panting tongue. She was quickly whisked behind her dressing screen, where she calmly tried to explain to her father exactly what had happened to her while Fiebe helped her out of her soiled gown.

Irina sent her an apologetic look as she peeled away the soiled bodice. All her hard work embroidering in had been ruined. "It all happened very quickly, papa," she said, raising her voice over the screen.

Fiebe smiled. "You live, Ducesa," she whispered in broken German as she gathered up the hem of Irina's chemise and lifted it over her head. "That is what matter."

When one of the maids suddenly appeared behind the screen and moved to grab the soiled bodice and petticoats, Irina pounced quickly. "Leave it!" she hissed, quickly adding in a softer voice that, "it can wait until morning."

The Duke tutted from the other side of the room. "You know, I find it hard to believe that you not once got a good look at the wretch who did this to you, liebling."

"I _told_ you, papa," Irina said as Fiebe proceeded to help her into her dressing gown – a temporary comfort while a hot bath was being drawn. "He wore a mask and a cloak with a cowl. He was very careful to keep his identity hidden."

The Duke sighed, "Well, what of his voice – what did the beast _say_ to you? He must have said _something_."

"Nothing, papa," Irina replied, beginning to tire of the interrogation. "He was frustratingly mute."

"Well. Why you left Fraulein Fleischer's at so late an hour in the first place is beyond me!" he went on.

Irina paused. "…We were talking about The French… French _Fashion. _Among _other_ things… And, you know how it is when women get together, papa, I suppose we simply lost track of the time," she lied.

The Duke nodded, then shook his head, "I still don't understand why you stopped at all."

Irina thanked Fiebe as she tied her dressing gown - yanking and tugging at the belt. "I needed to take a piss! Papa, honestly!" she complained as she stepped out from behind the screen. "I don't understand why we can't talk about all this tomorrow, when I'm feeling–"

When Irina noticed Prince Lupesci's thuggish frame filling the doorway, she stopped and blushed. He'd clearly been rushed from his bed; he'd shoved on a shirt, dragged on a pair breeches and boots and then grabbed one of his riding coats as an afterthought.

"Lady Irina," the prince said, his hard gaze immediately settling on the plunging neckline of her dressing gown. "…I'm relieved to see that you're unharmed."

Irina gripped the silk lapels tightly. "…Thank you, your highness," she replied. She sent her father an angry look, "I'm sorry your sleep has been disturbed – really, there was no need for it."

The Duke looked sheepish.

"On the contrary," Prince Lupesci replied as he made his way across the room and went to perch on the windowsill. When Folie trotted over to him – sniffing for attention – he ignored her and folded his arms. "I came as soon as I heard; I want to know _everything_. In my experience it's best to strike while the iron's hot. By tomorrow morning – who knows – you may have forgotten some small but not insignificant detail."

The Duke agreed. "He's right, liebling," he said as he sat in one of the easy chairs near the roaring fireplace. "Best to get it all out now. Then you won't have to think of it again."

Irina strolled over to her dressing table. "I doubt I'll forget a single detail of it for the rest of my life," she remarked crisply as she removed what was left of her jewellery _(the first waif to wander down that alleyway come the morning was going to count themselves very lucky indeed)_. She snatched up her hairbrush and waved it around as she spoke, "But, if it'll please your highness and allow me to finally be reunited with my bed, then by all means… strike away."

The two men listened carefully as Irina relived the attack in every minute detail from start to finish, and as she did, she was surprised to find that new details sprung from the fog. _Small_ but insignificant details, like the man's cloak; it was velvet – far too fine to belong to a peasant. And she remembered the softness of his riding gloves as they bruised her skin – smooth, like lambskin. Most likely made from _Gants_ _de Suède_, she decided, as she recalled one particular visit to a glove maker on the Kartner Straße, and a pair of pale, suede riding gloves she'd fallen in love with_. _And then – with some surprise – she suddenly remembered smelling a faint perfume as the beast had seized her from behind; it had been a fusty, powdery smell that seemed _so_ familiar, somehow. Lavender, perhaps. And notes of something sweet and leathery that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

The prince folded his arms. "Perhaps you were smelling your own perfume."

Irina sent him a look. "I know very well the smell of my _own_ perfume, Prince Lupesci," she said, glancing at the luxurious bottle of rose perfume Amalia had given her last Christmastide. "And that was not it."

"And they carried a dagger, you say?" the Duke went on.

Irina perched on the edge of her bed. "Yes, and I think it was…" she began, remembering how Vlad had pulled it from his shoulder – the way his fingers had bleached around the hilt, and how he'd growled as it emerged from his flesh. She licked her lips, "Yes, it should still be on the floor of carriage."

Prince Lupesci snapped his fingers at one of the footmen hovering nearby, who immediately hurried from the room to go and hunt for the blade. "And this dagger… it was used to wound the man who came to your assistance?"

"Yes – ah, thank you," Irina said as she accepted a glass of brandy from Fiebe. She took a steeling sip, "He took a blow to the shoulder, but… strangely seemed to be alright. He walked away with barely a scratch..."

The Duke hummed, tapping his fingers against the armrest of the chair. "Any idea who the fellow was, liebling?" he asked. "I'd love to thank him for his gallantry."

Irina opened her mouth, then closed it. "…Um, no," she replied, looking down. "No, I'd never seen him before, so–"

The prince narrowed his hazel eyes. "You didn't happen to catch his name," he stated.

"…No," she replied, taking a hefty gulp from the glass.

Prince Lupesci stared her down. "…You didn't think to ask him?"

Sensing his tone, Irina scowled. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'd just been _attacked_," she said. "I was shaken, forgive me but I wasn't exactly concerned with asking the man his life story–"

"A simple _name_ would have sufficed," the prince pressed on, stalking towards her. "You willingly shared a carriage with the man. You didn't once concern yourself with who he was?"

"It didn't occur to me."

"Well, what on earth _did_ you talk about?"

Irina breathed out through her nose. "The weather," she snarled sarcastically.

The prince wiped a hand across his jaw. "I find it a little strange that he abandoned you on the doorstep. That he then disappeared without word – without some reward for his bravery?" he said.

"He's not like that," Irina snapped, immediately wishing she could take it back. She shut her eyes and shook her head, "He didn't seem the sort."

"Well," the prince pressed, "perhaps he'd already got what he wanted?"

The Duke stood up so suddenly that the chair screeched across the floorboards and startled the dogs. "That's _enough_, your highness!" he roared. "You forget yourself."

Prince Lupesci held Irina's furious gaze for a moment before he stood down, the twist in his lips telling her that he didn't believe her – that something in her story didn't add up. "…Forgive me," he said, bowing.

"You'd do well to remember, your highness, that when you address me _or_ my daughter, you're addressing the Empress – is that understood?"

The prince bowed his head. "My profound apologies," he said. "I only meant that... perhaps this man found his reward in simply rescuing the Duchess from the monster who's seen fit to stalk our streets."

Irina downed the rest of her brandy and sent the prince a sour look. _Oh, I bet you did_.

The Duke sat back down, "And that monster is the wretch we should be focusing on," he reminded him. "_Not_ the gentleman who almost certainly saved my daughter's life tonight. God save him, whoever – _and_ wherever – he is."

Irina nodded. "Quite right, papa," she agreed. She turned to the prince, "And since you've reaped quite enough information on my attacker for one evening, your highness, you're free to leave. You're looking for a nobleman with a bullet lodged in his spleen. If he's not dead in a ditch by morning, then I'm sure you'll have _no_ trouble hunting him down."

Prince Lupesci strolled towards her and held out his hand, "Of course, Duchess," he grunted.

Irina reluctantly placed her hand in his and watched as it lifted it to his lips.

"He's as good as found," he whispered as he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. "…As is the gentlemen who came to your rescue."

Irina slipped her hand from his grasp.

"...After all, I wouldn't want to deprive you of your chance to thank him," he added, before he turned on his boot and left.

* * *

It was close to three o'clock in the morning when Irina finally slipped into her nightgown – skin cleansed of the night and its events. She'd sat stewing in her bath and in the bloody, muddy water for half an hour smoking tobacco from a pipe and pondering every single detail, her gaze fixed upon the ruined gown. Once Fiebe and the other maids left her alone and went off to retire to their own rooms and beds, Irina stomped over to the gown and fished around in the pocket for the bloodied handkerchief.

Even looking at it without a microscope she could tell that there was something strange about the blood. Fresh blood would have travelled through fibres of the handkerchief, just as it did through the veins and capillaries inside the body. But Vlad's blood sat in thick, black globules over the surface – not quite coagulated, but not exactly fresh and free-flowing either.

Irina took the handkerchief and a glowing candle over to her microscope. She carefully smeared the blood over a clean slide, holding her breath as she positioned it under the microscope.

When she adjusted the lens and the blood cells came into view, she squinted.

They were so unlike the rose petal-like corpuscles she'd been so used to seeing. The lens was clogged full of fragmented cells – broken like shards of glass – and the ones that weren't, were plump – like pebbles – without that characteristic dip in the middle. And they were _dark_. Not black, but full-bodied like an aged red wine. But the slide was so crowded that it was hard to get a proper look at them.

Recalling something she'd recently read in a surgeon's journal about diluting blood to spread the cells and get clearer image through the microscope, she glanced around the room for a suitable liquid. After discounting her dirty bathwater and expensive French perfume, her eyes found the well of blue ink sitting in front of her. She carefully picked up a small droplet using the end of her quill, and then allowed it to drip onto the slide – watching as the two liquids began to commingle.

It had been an experiment if anything, but Irina's mouth dropped open at what she saw when she sat forward and looked through the lens of the microscope.

They appeared as if by magic – invisible cells that were twice the size of the red ones, made visible by the ink that had turned them a watery shade of blue. They were like conkers – large and rounded with a faded middle – and they were _everywhere_, some of them even appeared to be in the process of changing shape – metamorphosing by splitting open and stretching out.

She scrambled around in her desk, found her ledger, and then – with her quill in hand – took a moment to draw the makeup of Vlad's blood, from the shattered, dark red blood cells to the mysterious "invisible" cells, as well as a brief explanation.

Could they have been the cause of his sudden and miraculous recovery?

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

** _"Arschgeige": _ ** _German insult, the literal translation is **"Butt Violin"**. Slip that into your conversations next week, I dare you. :-)_

**_Gants_ ** _**de Suède:** Old French word for Suede, it literally means "Gloves from Sweden"._

_**Vlad's "Invisible Cells":**_ _It's kind of tricky coming up with workable Vampiric Microbiology from scratch, just so you know. Really tricky. But my research on this is based on the 18th century understanding of blood makeup, microscopy and the discovery of white blood cells in the 1770s. As I've said before, red blood cells had been seen through the microscope but their function wasn't really understood. Then in the 1770s, a man called William Hewson (as well as another French gentleman a few years prior to that) discovered **"colourless cells"** (what we now know to be White Blood Cells) when he used a serum to dilute a blood smear instead of the usual water. This later enabled scientists to slowly gain a better understanding of all the cells that make up human blood and in turn understand the various diseases and disorders associated with it. The invisible cells Irina discovers I suppose we could say are something similar to stem cells that have the ability to change into any kind of cell in the human body and therefore be used for regeneration. The fragmented and plump red blood cells she also sees would be very common in someone suffering with hemolytic anemia - hence the need for Vampires to feed on fresh, healthy blood to survive. Yeah... Hey, I'm a writer not a Microbiologist, so please forgive the rough pseudoscience! I'm coming at this with about as much understanding of it as an eighteenth century doctor, I suppose, so hopefully it's all believable when taken in context._


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up; some potentially triggering stuff for anyone who's been through either miscarriage or abortion coming up towards the end of the chapter.

_ **Hermannstadt, mid December 1769** _

"While you're over there, Fiebe, can you fetch me a little lavender?" Irina asked as she lifted the lid of her still and stirred the boiling herbs, a cloud of steam erupting into the air.

"Yes, Ducesa," Fiebe replied, her fingers tiptoeing over the jars cluttering the shelves in Irina's closet – labelled jars filled with dried leaves and flower heads, as well as seeds and spices, all hidden by hanging cloaks and petticoats.

Irina swiped the back of her hand across her sticky forehead and popped the lid back onto the still. "…It's the one with the purple flower heads," she elaborated, waving a hand at one of the higher jars.

When the cook complained that her pantry stock of herbs was mysteriously running low, Irina decided that it was probably time to buy her own. She discreetly sent one of the maids out to the market with a scribbled list of essential herbs, spices and other medicinal ingredients, as well as the parts she'd need to make a simple still based on a diagram she'd seen in a Botanical Medicine Book. Sure, the finished product was a little rickety and she'd suffered several minor burns touching the metal parts during the test run – but it would do. It would be perfect for extracting the essential oils she needed to make the balms and ointments she'd promised to various women.

The steam seeping from the still clouded the windows and filled the room with a pungent and rather sour stench. The combined oils from the herbs that were bubbling away were to make a balm to soothe menstrual pain, but unfortunately one of those herbs gave off the most horrendous smell as it boiled. Even Folie had found it intolerable and trotted out of the room with her nose twitching and her tail between her legs.

Hopefully, a little lavender would help to mask it.

Fiebe sighed and dropped her hands to her sides. "I not know this thing," she complained.

Irina wiped her hands on her apron and then went over to help. She reached up onto her toes and brought down the jar that was full of dried lavender. "This one," she said with a smile as she opened the lid and released the perfume of high summer into the closet.

Fiebe reached into the jar and plucked out one of the purple heads. "Ah!" she exclaimed as held it under her nose. "Yes, I put this in your, uh… _cufăr_?"

Irina raised an eyebrow as Fiebe patted down her skirts and then pointed to the large clothes trunk in the corner of the small room. Swirls of coloured muslin and cotton were creeping from its jaws. "Oh! My clothes trunk, yes. Aveţi dreptate," she replied with a nod. "Lavender is very good at keeping away moths – uh, _insectă_."

Fiebe shook her head. "_Molii_," she corrected.

Irina tried to commit the word to memory. "Molii. And, what do _you_ call this?" she asked, teasing the small spear of lavender from between Fiebe's fingers. "Ce numești asta?"

"Levănţică," Fiebe replied, grinning.

"_Levănţică_," Irina repeated as she dropped it back into the jar with the others. She whispered the word to herself a few more times as she carried it over to the small side table she'd set up near the fireplace where she'd been preparing the herbs.

Despite her attempts to be discreet, news of Fiebe's remarkable recovery had spread, and soon the women of Hermannstadt had begun to wonder whether Irina could help them too. After the laundress and then Liesl Fleischer, the notary's pale and fragile-looking wife had come looking for help – pouncing on Irina one Sunday after mass when the Archbishop and her husband were far too busy talking to notice. Having been told by Doctor Tarsus that the intense pain she was experiencing when her 'monthly visitor' arrived was a woman's burden and that she should read the bible to ease her pains, the poor woman had decided that she had little choice but to look elsewhere for answers. Enraged by what she'd heard – and frustrated that her patients weren't being as discreet as she'd asked them to be – Irina had quietly promised to help on the condition of her silence on the matter, and had done a little reading to find some herbs that might help with the pain.

Still, on the surface at least, no one seemed to care that women kept turning up at the door of the Governor's Palace asking to see the Duchess. The Duke was kept far too busy moving between his sick bed and the business of governing Transylvania, and even though he certainly found it odd he simply assumed that his dutiful daughter had decided to take up a few charitable causes – which was close enough to the truth.

Despite her fears of enraging the council, and that somehow word might spread back to Vienna – heaven forbid – Irina realised that she was actually enjoying herself. She found that not having to attend all the balls and court ceremonies she'd been expected to in Vienna gave her plenty of time to indulge her interest in medicine. It kept her busy, stopped her pining for home and – more importantly – distracted her from thinking about Vlad.

...Mostly.

She hadn't seen him since the night of the attack _(why on earth hadn't he come to check on her?)_, and yet, when her mind wandered – when she was mixing herbs, sleeping or smoking in the window as she stared at the mountains and ruins on the horizon – she found that her thoughts always wandered straight to him. She hadn't been able to get that night and what she'd seen out of her head. The attack. The man, flung like a rag doll across an alleyway and into a wall. And a vicious stab wound that had miraculously healed.

And the blood.

The morning after, she'd been skeptical of her discovery and had checked a sample of her own blood with ink to see if she could see the same invisible cells that she'd seen in Vlad's blood. To her surprise and slight relief, she _did_ have similar cells – but they were few and far between and were hugely outnumbered by her red blood cells. Stranger still, they didn't seem to be changing shape and metamorphosing like Vlad's had. She checked Fiebe's blood again, two of the bravest maids in the house and one of the footmen. She made observations in her ledger and sketched exactly what she saw. She read every book she had on the subject of blood and made accompanying notes, but couldn't seem to find anything to explain what she'd seen. No one had blood like Vlad's, it seemed. No, there was something different about _his_ blood, and she couldn't help but make the connection between the mass of invisible, shifting cells and the wound in his shoulder that had strangely disappeared.

And as for the monster who'd attacked her - the so-called Vampire? Strangely, Prince Lupesci had come up empty. Despite ransacking every alleyway and ditch in town, he hadn't found a body, and none of the physicians admitted to receiving a patient with a bullet to the stomach. It was _very_ strange, and rather disconcerting that the monster was still out there. And the familiar scent she smelled... she _still_ couldn't put her finger on it, but she was almost certain it would be an important clue as to the attacker's identity.

The Duke, Fiebe and the maids – they all mistook Irina's pensive silence for distress. They worried that she was emotionally fragile after the attack, when the truth was that she was simply deep in thought, thinking about blood – what it was, how it worked and why Vlad's appeared to work so very differently. In the end, she decided to write a letter to the Empress' physician; Herr Van Swieten had been so kind to indulge her interest in medicine, and she wondered whether he might be able to answer her questions and come up with an explanation for what she'd seen. As a footnote, she asked whether there was anything that could be done for her father - who was still suffering from stomach pains.

"It will help, how?" Fiebe asked as she watched Irina crunch and sprinkle the lavender into the still.

Irina brushed off her hands, quickly stirred the mixture, and then closed the lid. "…Well, the uh–"

"Levănţică."

"_Levănţică_ – that's just to help with the smell," she explained, tapping the tip of her nose. She took a step back, "…Mugwort is soothing," she said as she pointed to the jar on the side full of spiked leaves, "and – strangely, despite its name – I've read that Devil's Nettle eases inflammation," she said as she picked up a jar full of tiny dried, white flower heads. "Hopefully."

Fiebe looked confused but nodded along anyway – stooping to peer into each jar.

Irina swivelled the final jar on the small table until the label – marked with a skull – was showing. "And Dog's Mercury helps with pain," she said with a slight frown, "but _only_ when applied directly to the skin. It should _never_ be ingested - uh, eaten. _Nu_ mancati. Understand?"

Fiebe traced her fingers over the label. "…Otravă," she muttered. She looked up at Irina, "Poison?"

"Yes. _If_ it's eaten – which is why I'm only using a very small amount, just in case," Irina explained as she plonked the jar back down and wiped her hands on her apron. She wrinkled her nose, "Smells like death, doesn't it?"

Fiebe smiled. She pointed to the windows, "I open for you?"

Irina nodded as she crouched in front of the still and watched the first couple of drops of oil glide down the cooling tube. "…We'll add this to a little olive oil and beeswax to make a rub, and that _should_ help the notary's wife get along a little better with her monthly visitor."

Fiebe kneeled up on the ledge and pushed open the windows, letting in the frosty December air and sending a small avalanche of snow from the windowsill down into the square below. She tucked a coppery thread of hair behind her ear. "You are like Ileana Cosânzeana," she proclaimed as she hopped down from the window.

"...Who?" Irina asked her, just as someone began tapping impatiently on the bedroom door.

"She is like Princess; my people believe she is good spirit who is giving spring the flowers and is helping the sick," Fiebe explained in broken German. "Is very old story. She is taken by the dracul to tower and forced to be bride."

The tapping became louder.

"Come in!" Irina shouted over her shoulder. She looked at Fiebe, "The Dracul? You mean, _Dracula_?"

Fiebe hesitated, trying to find the right word. "...No, it is _animal, _Ducesa," she explained, just as the washer woman walked into the room. "Uh… It spit this thing?" she said, pointing at the fire.

Irina pulled a face and chuckled. "Oh! You mean a _dragon_," she replied.

Fiebe grinned. "Dragon, yes," she repeated. "The story end when a prince – he save Ileana and kill dracul - uh, _dragon_."

Irina lifted her eyebrows and smiled. "Well that sound like it would make a wonderful opera. I'll be sure to stay away from any dragons then," she joked as she untied her apron and walked across the room to meet the washer woman. Strange; she wasn't expected until the following week. _I'm losing track of days_, Irina thought to herself. "…It's not Wednesday, is it?"

The washer woman dropped a quick curtsey. "No mistress; forgive me for dropping in on you," she replied. "I was passing by and just thought I'd come and say, thank you."

"…Oh," Irina replied, huffing. "You really didn't need to do that."

"That balm you gave me was magic! My hands have never felt better!" the woman went on, holding them out for her to see. "My husband's _very_ happy with them. Although I have to hide the gloves from him; he'll wonder where I got them – think I stole them. Or worse, he'll think that someone's buying my favour."

Irina raised an eyebrow as she took one hand and turned it over; sure enough, the scaling and splitting skin had almost miraculously smoothed over. "About the gloves–"

The woman looked sheepish. "Sorry, mistress; I didn't think to bring them al–"

Irina rolled her eyes, "Oh no, I don't want them back; I've got plenty. You can keep them," she told her, dropping her hand. "Are you still wearing them while you work?"

The woman nodded quickly. "_Wear_ them? I hardly take them off, mistress!"

"Well, I'm glad they're helping, and that your hands are healing," Irina said as she strolled back over to the fireplace and to the still, hoping that the interruption was over. "Keep wearing the gloves. And _please_ don't tell anyone that I gave them to you."

But the woman didn't leave; she stood awkwardly in the doorway, wringing her skirts.

Irina placed a hand on her hip, "Was there something else?"

The woman hesitated. "…Oh, mistress," she sighed as she quickly turned and shut the door.

_Oh God, now what?_ "What is it?"

"…It's my niece – she's _very_ sick," she replied, her voice sticking in her throat. "I'm _so_ worried for her, mistress."

Fiebe rushed over and helped the woman into the chair beside the fireplace, while Irina dropped into the seat opposite her and calmly asked her to explain the girl's symptoms.

According to the woman, the poor girl had been confined to her bed for days clammy with fever and groaning with stomach pains, barely able to move let alone continue to work. The woman not only feared for her life, but that if the girl didn't recover soon then she'd be unable to pay her rent and would be thrown out onto the street. Since her own family had turned their back on her, the washer woman had cared for her as best she could – but unfortunately, the girl's condition hadn't improved.

"I _hate_ to trouble you again, mistress - after all you've done," she went on, shaking her head, "only, the other physics are refusing to see the poor girl and… well, you've been so very kind to me."

Irina was confused. First the girl's family had turned their back on her, and now the doctors had done the same. Why? What possible reason could they have for turning her away? "I don't understand. _Why_ are they refusing to see her? The other doctors, I mean," she asked, smelling a rat. "I haven't seen her myself so I couldn't say for certain, but it doesn't _sound_ as if she's suffering from anything contagious."

The woman looked into the fire and sighed. "…It's on a count of her _profession_, mistress," she explained, raising her thick eyebrows. "Honest men won't go near her."

"…Her profession?" Irina replied as she glanced up at Fiebe, who was standing behind her leaning an arm on the back of the chair.

Fiebe sent her look.

"…_Oh_," she muttered as she suddenly realised. "Oh, I see."

"She's a good girl really, she wouldn't hurt a soul – and I'm all she's got in the world," the woman insisted. "Will you go see her? Just to make sure she's alright, rule out anything serious – I'm lost with what to do. And she won't talk to me about it - or tell me what's wrong. She won't even let me take a proper look at her."

Irina was uneasy; she'd be the hot topic of conversation at Liesl's next salon if the ladies heard it whispered on the wind that she'd visited a prostitute. But, she couldn't help herself. "…Where do you live?" she asked. "Perhaps I could visit in secret."

Fiebe stiffened. "Ducesa–"

"…Well, see, that's the thing, mistress. She's not living with me, you see," the woman admitted. She looked down, staring at the hands folded neatly in her lap. She shook her head, "She's living at the Magazin de Pălărie, near the steps."

"…The Hat Shop?" Irina replied.

Fiebe grabbed Irina's arm suddenly. "In nici un caz! Capota de Trandafir – I _know_ this place. Is a bordel, Ducesa," she told her. "A _brothel_. You cannot go."

Irina straightened and nodded; Liesl and the other ladies had mentioned Capota de Trandafir – 'The Rose Bonnet' – during the salon and had gossiped voraciously about the gentlemen who'd been seen going in and out at all hours. It might have maintained the pretense of being a hat shop but it hid a salacious secret beneath its brim. Fiebe was right, a Duchess – the Governor's daughter, no less – slipping into a brothel would cause a scandal to set tongues wagging for _months_.

She couldn't do that to her father. To _herself_. She'd be ruined if anyone found out. "…I can't. I just can't! I'm sorry," she told the washer woman. "If someone were to see me there… See me going in or coming out, then... my God, it'd be a disas–"

The washer woman snatched her hand. "_Please_, mistress," she begged, tears filling her eyes.

Irina frowned.

She _knew_ it was dangerous, she _knew_ she shouldn't and yet still, when darkness fell she found herself packing a basket full of tonics and tools. She asked Fiebe to fetch her one of the maids' plain, woollen cloaks, and fished out her full-face velvet mask from a clothing trunk. She dressed plainly underneath in a midnight, blue gown, and left her diamonds in her jewellery box and her hair undressed under her hood. She'd planned to go alone, but Fiebe quickly put a pin in that plan when she insisted on coming along. Just in case, she said. With the attack still fresh in her mind, Irina gave in. And so once the house had fallen silent – when the last candle had been snuffed out and Folie had flopped onto her side at the foot of the bed – the two women slithered out through the kitchen door and into the frosty night.

The Rose Bonnet was shockingly close to the Governor's Palace. Tucked away in a passage behind the dark towers and yellow bricks of St Mary's Cathedral, the brothel looked much the same as any of the other houses on the narrow, sloping street in which it stood. It was a crumbling, pink building, with cluttered roof tiles, splintered green doors and large windows with matching shutters. There was a sign swinging above the door – half obscured by a dusting of snow – a painting of a lady's bonnet adorned with a plump, pink rose. The downstairs windows – displayed with hats, haberdashery and other ladies accessories – were in total darkness, whilst cracks of light escaped from behind the shutters of the upstairs ones. The attic windows peered out of the roof tiles like heavy-lidded eyes, seducing passers-by.

Irina held her hood tightly over her face as she hurried to the door and reluctantly beat it with her fist.

The woman who answered was old and dressed like a crow in ruffles and plumes of black satin. She hunched over the candle she was carrying; it lit up her face and made it appear ghoulish, highlighting all the powder and rouge she'd painted into her wrinkles. She picked up the pair of spectacles dangling around her neck and squinted through them, looking very confused to see two women standing in front of her. "We're closed," she snapped, despite the distant sound of laughter and music echoing from behind her.

Irina lifted an eyebrow as she peered over the woman's shoulder. "I'm not here to buy a hat; I've come to see Sofie," she told her.

The old woman took in the mask and hood and snorted. "_Oh_. You're one of _those, _are you? Well, Sofie's... indisposed. She's not working tonight," she replied as she began closing the door. "Come back another night."

Irina threw out a hand and forced it open. "You misunderstand, madam," she growled through her mask. She pointed to the basket Fiebe was carrying that was full of linens, tonics and implements. "I'm a… I'm here to help," she explained, after all could she really officially call herself a doctor?

"Help _how_?"

"I'm… well, I suppose I _am_ a doctor – or an aspiring one at least," she told herself with a shrug. "Sofie's aunt sent me. She's very worried about her."

The old woman was surprised and peered at her again through her spectacles. "An _aspiring_ doctor, what's that mean?"

Irina tapped her foot. "It means, madam, that I'd _be_ one if I had a penis," she snapped without thinking, before glancing over her shoulder in a panic. She lowered her voice substantially, "Now, can we _please_ come in?"

The woman narrowed her old eyes and cracked a small smile. "You don't look like any doctor I've seen before. But then most of the ones I know just come here for sport," she replied, the door creaking as she opened it. "They wouldn't be caught dead actually _working_ here."

"Well, I'm not _most_ doctors, madam."

"…I can see that," the old woman nodded as she dropped her spectacles. She stepped aside, holding the door with her withered fingers, "You'd better come in, then."

"Thank you," Irina replied, taking a deep breath before she crossed the threshold.

The woman escorted them through the sleeping shop front, and then up a creaking staircase to the upstairs parlour which was wide awake with music and laughter. The room was plain enough, but had been dressed sumptuously in red velvet curtains, Turkish rugs, silken chairs and a rather wobbly-looking harpsichord that was being tinkered on by a rather wobbly-looking woman pickled senseless on wine. The same could have been said for the other women scattered around the room; each one of them was dressed scantily in old silk stays, limp feathers and paste diamonds as they drifted through the heavy, lingering candle smoke to flirt with and fuss the gentlemen scattered around the room playing cards, lounging, drinking wine and smoking.

Irina sought out Fiebe's hand, held her breath, kept her eyes to the floorboards and her mask on as the old woman escorted them through a set of double doors. They passed into a narrow corridor plagued with creaking floorboards, while grunting and moaning could be heard coming from the many rooms leading from it. Irina swallowed the lump in her throat; she wondered what Amalia would think if she knew what she was up to. What would her late mother think? She could almost hear her tossing and turning in her grave _(or was that the sound of beds creaking?)_.

The situation might have made her laugh if she'd been watching it play out during a comic opera – a Duchess visiting a brothel in disguise and being mistaken for a courtesan – but there were no moving sets, no costumes or soft, sighing arias - only her heart hammering with every step she took. But not entirely in a bad way; her mouth hung open and her eyes were wide, and when she passed by a door that was hanging slightly ajar – the candlelight from inside bleeding out into the corridor in a thick, bright line across the floorboards – Irina stopped, bit her lip and found she couldn't resist peering in.

Through the slither of a gap she could see a blonde-haired woman kneeling up on a bed, stark naked except for a greasy silk ribbon tied around her neck. She was pretty in a puckish sort of way, Irina supposed, with a short nose, rounded features and cheeks that dimpled when she giggled. She had a body like the statue of Greek nymph - all soft curves and gleaming limbs.

"…Ți-e foame?" she asked, looking down at the man lying between her thighs and smoothing her hands over his bare chest.

The man reached up. His large hands climbed her hips and ribcage, and then swept softly over her breasts. "…_Ravenous_," he rasped in reply.

The woman grinned as she swept her long, fair hair to one side and allowed her head to roll onto her shoulder - baring the slope of her neck.

"...No, not there," he told her.

Irina blinked through the crack as the man suddenly snatched her throat and rolled her onto her back. She watched as his dark head of hair moved down the woman's body, his arms flexing as he propped himself between her open thighs. He cupped the back of one of them, threw her leg over his muscled shoulder, and then brushed his lips from her knee to her navel. The candlelight illuminated his handsome face – dark hair framing sharp features and shadowing his jaw and chest.

Irina's cheeks blazed.

It was _Vlad_.

She tried to look away but found herself staring as he opened his mouth slightly and ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth – paying particular attention to his pointed canines, like a lion about to feast – before he dropped his head to the inside of the woman's thigh and bit down hard.

Irina gasped when Fiebe abruptly snatched her wrist.

"Ducesa, _come_," she whispered, quickly dragging her away.

Irina's stomach was tying itself in knots as the old women led her and Fiebe up a cramped and creaking staircase into the attic of the brothel. She was trying to decide how _exactly_ she felt about seeing Vlad rolling in bed with and biting a whore.

_...Biting_.

And not just the soft gnawing of a lover; he'd feasted upon her like an animal – like a predator taking down its prey with a strategic lunge.

Like a… _vampire_.

Irina scoffed at the thought, pushing it to the back of her mind as the old woman showed her and Fiebe into a tiny room tucked away in the eaves – stale with the smell of sweat and vomit. It was truly hard to focus on anything else once you'd smelt it.

The room was more like a broom cupboard in size. There was barely enough space for a bed and yet the small space was practically crowded with furniture – from the tin tub in front of a crackling stove, to the cluttered vanity table and the clothes trunk propped in front of it being used as a chair. The washer woman's niece Sofie was lying in a cot that had been shoved up against a single-paned window, the sheets tangled around her waist and soiled with blood. She was pale, and clammy with sweat.

The old woman didn't seem to care. "I'll leave you to it then," she said as she left, shutting the door behind her.

The room fell silent as Irina and Fiebe clung to each other near the door, listening uncomfortably to the sound of Sofie's laboured breaths and the wind moaning outside the window.

Fiebe squeezed Irina's hand. "…Ducesa?"

Irina frowned, staring at the blood on the sheets and the sickly yellow colour of Sofie's lips. The poor girl was clearly very, _very_ sick. She removed her mask, lowered her hood and approached the bed. "…Sofie?" she called gently, strolling her fingers like a spider across the girl's limp hand.

Sofie turned her head and slowly opened her dark, sunken eyes.

"…Your aunt sent me," she said. "I'm a doctor."

The girl laboured as she swallowed and licked her lips, vomit clumping in the corners and on her chin. She tried to sit up a little. "…Daft woman. I can't afford a doctor," she replied, her voice weak. "Neither can she."

At least the girl still had a sense of humour, that was a good sign. "Never you mind about that," she said, waving Fiebe over with the basket. She reached in and brought out a clean flannel. "Silly question, perhaps, but how are you feeling?" she asked as she dabbed the sweat from the girl's neck and brow.

Sofie held her breath and winced. "…I've been better."

"You're in pain," Irina realised, nodding. "Whereabouts?"

The girl pointed downwards.

Irina glanced down her body – over the stained sheets. She gulped. "…Do you mind if I take a quick look?"

Sofie looked at her for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll waive the usual fee for peeking under my skirts… just this once though," she joked, cracking a smile that quickly crumpled away.

Irina smiled.

Fiebe stepped in, "Let me, Ducesa," she said as she carefully peeled back the soiled sheets, then dropped them immediately with a little gasp. The poor girl's chemise, mattress and bare thighs were sopping with bright red blood – fresh blood.

Irina's eyes widened.

"_Dumnezeule_," Fiebe gasped into her hand, glancing nervously at her mistress.

Irina squelched down on her fear as she stared at all the blood. It was impossible to ignore where it was clearly coming from. "…Sofie," she said, softly. "Are you with child?"

Sofie shut her eyes; a tear skated down her cheek. Her chin wobbled. She nodded, pressing her hands flat to her belly. It wasn't swollen; it was far too early for her to have felt the quickening and yet it was clear that she'd felt a presence there, _known_ that something was alive inside her and that now it was gone. Perhaps that brought her more pain than anything else.

Irina felt her heart sink into her stomach. "...It's alright," she told Sofie as she reached out and touched the hand that was resting on her belly – although she may as well have been telling herself, trying to convince herself that it _would_ be alright. She took a deep breath, "…When did you start bleeding?"

Sofie sobbed. "About ten days ago."

Irina glanced over at the blood sticking to the girl's thighs – some of it old, but a good deal of it was very fresh. _That_ was worrying; surely, she should have stopped bleeding by now? In the very least it should have started to ease _days_ ago. There was far too much blood. _Far_ too much – which certainly explained the poor girl's pallor. But not the vomiting.

Sofie threw her hand over her face and suddenly cried out, tears rolling down her cheeks. "It was just a little at first – not much. I don't think I even felt it," she sobbed. "But then there was more, and more, and then… and the _pain_–"

Irina sucked on her lower lip and nodded. She squeezed the girl's hand, "Have you passed the..." She hesitated; _oh_, it was so difficult to ask such a question. She chose her next words _very_ carefully. "...Have you passed anything _other_ than blood?"

Sofie turned her head to the side and looked at her. She nodded sadly, her face crumpling.

"...Alright... Alright," Irina whispered, pondering the situation and recalling everything she'd read in all those midwifery books growing up. "You're still bleeding, so there might still be some more to come, but-"

"_Ducesa_," Fiebe suddenly called. She was standing in front of the dressing table holding a small bottle.

Irina reached back and took the bottle from her. She glanced down at the label. It appeared to be a tonic made from cinnamon water, pudding grass oil and snakeroot. _Oh no._ She'd read about those herbs in one of her books; cinnamon was harmless enough, obviously, but the others were practically _poison_ – even in small doses. Worse still for a woman carrying a child.

When Sofie saw the bottle, she immediately looked away.

Irina squeezed the bottle in her fist and frowned, breathing out through her nostrils.

Fiebe raised her eyebrows. "…Otravă, yes?"

Irina looked down and nodded. She turned back to face the bed, "Sofie. Who gave you _this_?"

Sofie sniffed. "...One of the other girls," she replied. "She said it would help – that she'd used it before herself, and that it would help bring down my flowers."

Irina tossed the bottle into her basket with more force than intended. She'd dispose of it later. "Well, whoever it was, they were wrong. It's _poison_, Sofie; you've poisoned yourself," she explained bluntly. She couldn't help her anger; she hadn't meant to splash that anger over Sofie, but the truth was that she was spilling over with it. And _not_ because of what the poor girl had done to herself, but over the lack of care and sympathy that had driven her to desperation. She pressed a hand to her face, "_T__hat's_ why you've been vomiting and haven't stopped bleeding."

Sofie whimpered. "…I know what I've done - I know it's a sin, I _know_ it is," she cried, shaking her head. Her whole face buckled as she shook her head and wailed, "But, I just couldn't… I'm sorry, I _couldn't_!"

"Shh now," Irina soothed, dabbing the sweat and the tears from the girl's face and forehead. "It's alright, please don't cry. I didn't mean to get cross... it's not your fault. It's _not_ your fault."

Cutting through the fear and sadness she felt for Sofie was a sort of anger she hadn't felt before. Anger towards the family who'd thrown her out, anger towards the doctors who'd refused to treat her and most of all fury at the man who'd used her and left her to face such a decision alone. Were women really so dispensable?

Sofie suddenly looked worried. "…Am I going to die?"

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**Ileana Cosânzeana:** Ileana and the story about the dragon are real stories from Romanian Mythology. Ileana is described as a Princess and also a Fairy who's responsible for bringing Spring Flowers their scent. She's also supposed to be able heal people with her white magic. "Even the wind loves Ileana, but he can never catch her."_

_**Physic:**_ _The washerwoman mentions that none of the other physics in the town will see Sofie - you've probably guessed it, but "physic" is basically another way of saying "doctor"._

_**"The attic windows peered out of the roof tiles like heavy-lidded eyes, seducing passers-by..."**_: _So these tiny attic windows that look like eyes are actually a popular feature of lots of Hermannstadt's/Sibiu's old architecture - they're known as "The City's Eyes". I just HAD to slip a reference to them in._

_**"Bring down my flowers":** A very old way of saying "to bring on a period/menstruation"._

_**"The Quickening":** Back in the 18th century there were no such things as pregnancy tests and so finding out that there was a baby on board wasn't as simple as spotting two blue lines on a stick. Most women had to wait until they'd skipped at least two periods to realise that they might be pregnant, some women who could afford the opinion of a doctor might be able to take a test using urine and wine (and some other ingredient, I can't remember what exactly), but really pregnancy was only confirmed when women felt "The Quickening" i.e. the first time a baby kicks in womb - usually around 16 weeks._

_ **Abortion:** _ _ Obviously abortions (all unsafe during the 18th century) were incredibly commonplace. Gynecology didn't really exist; as I mentioned before, some male doctors were beginning to actually show an interest in the process of childbirth and the risks involved for women, and were starting to take the place of midwives in the delivery room - but everything else to do with women's bits and bobs was a total mystery to mankind (...have times really changed? I do sometimes wonder, you know...). And so, when a woman found herself pregnant outside of marriage or generally when she didn't want to be, there were really only two options. She could either become a mother, or she could take on the risk of going to see a back street abortionist (a "mate in the know"/midwife/"wise woman"/"witch" - take your pick!). Depending on how far along the woman was, the midwife would either give her some kind of infusion to bring on a period (but, as Irina mentions, they were *incredibly* dangerous - pretty much poison - and drinking them carried a massive health risk - and still does, I might add), or she'd perform a surgical procedure to end the pregnancy (again, SO dangerous back then - it could result in a perforated uterus at worst, or at best, an infection). Women suffered **terribly**. To quote my favourite women's history podcast, "History is a bag of dicks"._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written some pretty hardcore stuff in my time, but honestly, I'm a bit nervous about posting this chapter. Obviously some really heavy stuff mentioned - *hopefully* I've executed it with sensitivity and haven't offended anyone - but I suppose the whole point of writing is to put emotional, difficult human experiences into words (lots of love to anyone reading who's been through either miscarriage or abortion - you're not alone).


	12. Twelve

They stayed with Sofie for about an hour – changing her bedding, helping her into a fresh chemise, mopping the blood from her skin and doing all they could to stave off any sign of infection – but in the end, too much damage had already been done. After ten days of sipping poison, the poor girl was incredibly weak and had lost a lot of blood; _if_ she survived, she'd certainly feel the effects of it for the rest of the life.

Once Fiebe had fed the girl the chicken broth she'd brought along, Irina left her with an infusion of burdock, nettle and yellow dock root that would hopefully help her body flush whatever remained of the poison and aid in replenishing the lost blood – a medicine that she'd mixed for Fiebe to great effect – but the sad truth was that she had very little faith it was strong enough to work on Sofie. In spite of everything, Irina _knew_ that she'd failed, and as she scooped up her basket and climbed down from the attic, she felt as though she'd left a small part of herself behind – not only the foolish part of herself that had believed that she could fix anyone given the chance, but the small part of her that had imagined she could be a capable doctor.

Fiebe took the basket from Irina. "She will live?" she asked as they made their way along the corridor, finding their way back to the noisy parlour and the tinkering sounds of the wonky harpsichord.

It was dark – gone midnight – but the brothel was still very much awake, with candlelight and laughter seeping through the cracks in the doors and spilling across the uneven, creaking floorboards.

"…I don't know," Irina replied with a shrug. "I _hope_ so, Fiebe, but-"

"But she has medicine now," the girl replied with a firm nod and a painfully optimistic smile.

Irina's eyebrows pulled. "Yes, but unfortunately, I think it might be too late," she replied. "Perhaps if we'd got here sooner, or the other doctors hadn't refused to see her then things may have been different."

"They have no heart," Fiebe snarled.

Irina nodded as she hooked her maid's arm - grateful that she had someone beside her. "No, they don't." _And_, _fuck them for it_, she thought to herself. She wasn't going to say the words out loud initially, but then she realised that she didn't care enough anymore to hold them in. She was in a brothel after all for God's sake; the words would be as familiar as the moans muttering through the mottled plaster. Why was she kicking herself for trying and failing when the so-called _real_ doctors hadn't even bothered? "Fuck the lot of them," she snapped.

Just ahead, one of the doors suddenly swung inwards – pouring warm light out into the corridor and onto the cracked and peeling walls. Irina stopped as the woman she'd spied on earlier emerged in a pink, silk dressing gown and mules – her blonde hair ragged. She swirled to face the open door – the pink silk fluid and flashing – and grinned as she dropped a quick curtsey.

She held out her palm as a hand reached out from inside the room and dropped a generous handful of coins into it.

The woman purred as she pocketed the coins. "Until next time, Conta," she said, sending Irina and Fiebe a curious glance before she turned on her heel and clipped off towards the parlour.

"We have to leave. Right now," Irina whispered as she lifted her mask and dragged her hood up and over her head. She kept her head down and her eyes forward as she grabbed Fiebe and quickly dragged her past the open door.

She managed perhaps three steps before a deep voice called after her. "...Duchess. What a pleasant surprise."

Irina's heart leapt into her throat. She stopped and turned – _slowly_ – peering over her shoulder from behind her mask, from within the dark cocoon of her hood - filled with her mane of brown curls. How on earth did he recognise her? "...You mistake me, sir," she muttered.

Vlad suddenly appeared in the doorway, bare to the waist in only his black boots and breeches – the candlelight from inside the room shining across his muscled torso. "...Impossible," he replied, raising a dark eyebrow as he leaned his shoulder against the door frame and crossed his boots. "...Stale Tobacco, over-friendly hound, over-bearing entitlement and... Persian rosewater. It's quite a rare and alluring musk you carry, you know."

Irina stared at him through the holes in her mask. She sighed impatiently as she tore away her mask, "Vlad."

She couldn't help the way her eyes lingered on his body; they seemed incapable of looking anywhere else. And she couldn't help but notice the lack of scarring or scabbing over the stab wound in his shoulder. It had _completely_ disappeared – as if that night had never happened.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, his blue gaze heavy as it finally fell upon her flushed and freckled face.

"Well, it's late, and I've lingered long enough," Irina said as she disciplined her wayward eyes, forcing them to look elsewhere – _anywhere_. "Good night – uh, _morning_," she added, tacking on a polite smile as she turned to walk away.

"Shame," Vlad sighed. "I was hoping to… catch up. I haven't seen you since... well. That unfortunate night."

Fiebe blinked at him, then sent her mistress a narrowed look.

Irina hesitated. "Yes, well; the less said about that the better."

"Have the council had any luck finding the... assailant?" he asked.

"None, I'm afraid. He's not turned up dead, nor living - it's very strange. Either he's very clever, or they're absolutely useless," she replied, rolling her eyes at the thought of Prince Lupesci on the hunt with his ridiculous crossbow.

Vlad laughed as he raked a hand through his thick black hair. "I suspect it's a good deal of both."

"Although, I'm starting to think he might be a nobleman," Irina went on, her gaze sweeping across his broad shoulders; the alternating brushstrokes of candlelight and shadow illuminated his skin like dawn upon the mountains - smooth plateaus of snow-white skin in light, and jagged, mountainous muscles in shadow. "Anyway, you're looking... _well_."

His returned gaze was blistering. "As are you," he rasped, his eyes drawing a slow and scorching line from her nape to her navel. "Forgive me for not calling on you."

"Well, I'm sure you've been busy," Irina replied a little crisply, glancing off up the corridor at the shadows dancing under the door of the parlour. "I know I have."

"Still–"

"Still, this is _hardly_ the place, or time for a catch up," she interrupted.

Vlad raised his eyebrows and shrugged his lips. "True," he said, folding his thick arms across his bare chest.

Irina held her breath. She couldn't help wondering what it might be like to be locked within those arms - what his skin might feel like pressed against her own.

"...But, I'd _love_ to know what the Duchess of Brunswick is doing in a brothel... and at such a late hour."

She blushed. "I'm sure you would."

"Did you come looking to educate yourself?" he teased. "Something tells me you'd be a model student. Quick to learn, eager to please..."

Irina tutted and scowled as she turned to walk away. "Good _night_."

"It _certainly_ was," he drawled.

At that, she spun and scoffed at him. "…Yes, you _certainly_ seem to have had your fill."

Vlad's grin was lopsided.

Irina stared back at him with equal intensity.

"Merely an aperitif, Duchess," he said, shrugging his lips. "…The night's still young. There's still perhaps time for the main course."

"The main-! Isn't it customary to _rest_ between courses?" Irina jibed, folding her arms.

Vlad simply smirked.

Irina narrowed her dark eyes; she was furious with him.

"…Strange," he said, frowning. "You're without that pistol of yours tonight and yet your gaze is just as disarming."

She tutted. "I best avert it then," she sniped, "And who says I'm without my pistol?"

Vlad's gaze dropped to her waist, then bounced back up. "Have I offended you somehow?"

Irina scoffed. "I hardly know where to start!"

The truth was that she knew he hiding something – everything – from her, and while that had been alluring and intriguing at first, it was becoming infuriating. And now that she'd seen him in a brothel she couldn't ignore the warning – the klaxon roaring at her to steer clear of him like a ship veering towards the rocks - that he was _dangerous_. That just like those jagged rocks, he'd tear her body apart and leave her nothing but a sinking shell. But she didn't know how she could possibly confront him about it; despite the fact that in her mind she'd allowed him to know every inch of her, every freckle and follicle – they didn't really know each other at all. How could she demand that he explain _why_ he was so strong and ask _how_ he'd managed to survive a stabbing without even a single scratch or scar. And what about the blood? She was still waiting for a reply to her letter from Herr van Swieten, still endlessly perplexing over it. And after what she'd seen tonight, it was becoming difficult to ignore that gnawing suspicion she had - to dismiss the ridiculous diagnosis nagging at her. Magia Posthuma made flesh before her distrustful, muddy eyes.

Fiebe tugged on Irina's arm, her blue eyes flitting between them nervously. "Ducesa, we _must_ go-"

"Perhaps I can make amends for whatever it is I've done," Vlad jumped in, gesturing to the open door – an invitation. "Join me for a drink."

Irina gulped. She felt her cheeks flush as her answer came out in a jumbled torrent, "A drink - what do you mean, "a drink" - what _kind_ of drink?"

Vlad pulled a face. "I meant _wine_. You drink wine, don't you? Unless you'd prefer something stronger? I can send for it."

Irina breathed a sigh of... was it relief? She wasn't sure. "Oh."

Vlad waited.

She stared temptingly at him. "…Even if I wanted to, I can't," she told him, shaking her head. She glanced up and down the corridor, her fingers twitching around her mask. "I can't risk being seen here."

Vlad tilted his head; there was mischief in his eyes. "Come now. A little risk is good for the soul."

Irina snorted, "But not for the reputation, I think."

He sighed. "You disappoint me, Irina," he said, her name honey on his lips. "Fearing what the world thinks is a very un-Duchess-like quality."

He was goading her, she knew it. And still, she found she was falling for it.

Fiebe tugged on Irina's cloak. "_Ducesa_," she warned.

But Irina had already made up her mind. She couldn't seem to help herself; the simple fact was that she knew she'd regret walking away. In the same way she couldn't help herself when she was a child and wanted to climb every wall and tree in the palace grounds and jump down from them - the higher the better - she could try and stop herself, but that curdling feeling in her gut told her that she'd always regret it and wonder what it felt like plumetting through the air.

"Fine. _One_ drink," she said as she snatched up her skirts and swept past Vlad into the room.

The room was small, patchily painted in powder blue and dominated by the large, gilt-framed bed in the middle of the room - topped with a tangle of white sheets and pillows. There was a nude portrait of Venus lounging in a bed of her own above it, one arm thrown behind her head whilst her plump fingertips tiptoed between her thighs – encouragement flashing in her heavy-lidded eyes.

Irina's lips twisted like the bed sheets as she raised an eyebrow and looked down her nose at her surroundings. She was close to changing her mind, but then heard the door click shut.

Vlad scooped up a dusty bottle of wine from a candlelit table and poured Irina a glass. He handed it to her and then politely gestured to two chairs facing each other beside a small, crackling fireplace.

Irina blinked down at the glass and hoped that it was clean. "...You're not joining me?" she asked as she lowered her hood and smoothed the curls from her face.

"…Ah, no," he replied, his blue eyes chasing her fingers as they brushed and picked at the glossy strands. "Wine disagrees with me."

Irina raised an eyebrow. "Hm. How odd." _And interesting_… she thought to herself.

"I'm sorry there's no chair for your maid," Vlad went on, glancing at Fiebe. He shrugged his lips and gestured to the door, "Perhaps she'd prefer to wait outside."

Fiebe sneered as she shoved past him and stomped across the room. She dithered briefly at the foot of the bed, but chose to settle instead on the windowsill. She plonked the basket down next to her, brushed down her skirts and then folded her arms. "I wait here."

Vlad was amused. "...Well, you can't blame a man for trying."

Irina caught Fiebe's distrustful scowl. "Fiebe, this is Vlad; he's my..." she said, her words trailing away as she tried to label him. She turned and looked at him, her eyes sizing him up and down as she tried to settle on an appropriate term for who he was to her. He wasn't _her _anything, was he?

Vlad shoved his hands into the pockets of his breeches. "A passing acquaintance," he suggested with a shrug of his shoulders.

Irina was surprised when she felt her heart lop into her stomach. She gave a nod, "Very well. Vlad, this is Fiebe; she's my ladies maid."

"Ah yes, your patient," he realised as he fell into one of the chairs, resting one boot across his knee and his hands over the embroidered arms of the chair.

He sat in it as if it were a throne, and even in his state of undress managed to look impossibly regal. He was practically glowing; his skin shining in the firelight, his cheeks slightly flushed.

"She's _very_ protective of me," Irina explained as she perched in the chair opposite, neatly arranging the skirts of her blue gown.

Vlad lifted his dark brows. "I can see that," he said. "So, you've a hound _and_ a terrier."

"Behave or I'll leave," Irina warned him.

He grinned.

"She also speaks a little German," Irina added purposefully, raising both her eyebrows.

"Noted."

Vlad watched as she proceeded to sip gingerly at her glass of wine, staring as she licked her lips and glanced around the room – at the ceiling, at the floor, at the bed. When her gaze returned to him, it was as sharp as a razor.

"So," she said with a sour smile. "_This_ is the business that keeps bringing you into town–"

Vlad shifted uncomfortably. "Ah."

"–Is _this_ where you were the other night?" she went on. "Before you found me in the alleyway?"

His gaze was defiant. "You don't approve."

Irina snorted. "Of course I don't approve. I've just been visiting a woman upstairs who's _dying_ because of this – because of the men who've used her." She raised her eyebrows. "Men like _you_."

"There are very few men like me."

Irina ignored him as she swirled her wine. "Honestly? I'm a little disappointed, Vlad. You could have your pick of any woman in town and yet-"

"They're all too busy minding their fragile reputations," he jibed. "And besides, men have _needs_–"

"And you think women don't?" Irina barked, surprising him - surprising herself. "That's a feeble excuse, Vlad, and you know it."

He looked at her for a moment; to any other woman it would have been excuse enough. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, "Alright," he said. "The truth, Irina, is that I like to maintain a low profile–"

"Why?" Irina demanded.

He sent her an impatient look, "Because."

She raised her eyebrows. "That's not an answer."

He huffed. He wanted to bark that it would be all the answer she'd get, but then he saw the fury in her eyes and found himself elaborating. "Because my needs are quite... _specific_."

Irina glimpsed his canines and tutted, "And you put those needs _above_ these poor women?"

Vlad thought about it for a moment, then shrugged his lips. "…I've never had any complaints."

She snorted. "Oh, _please_." Perhaps _he_ thought so – the blonde-haired women had certainly _seemed_ satisfied – but, "How can you tell?" she challenged him. "You are _paying_ them after all. Would they fall so eagerly into your bed without the promise of payment?"

Vlad sat forward in his chair. "Trust me," he whispered, winking. "I can tell."

Irina threw back a mouthful of wine. _Arrogant beast_. When she found her glass suddenly empty, she looked around for the bottle. "...May I?" she asked as she reached for it, snatching it by the neck.

Vlad nodded, "By all means."

He spoke on as she greedily refilled her glass. "I have a certain… _talent_ for these things, you see. A keen sense of… _everything_, really," he explained ambiguously, waving a hand as he sat back.

Irina slammed down the bottle. "Such modesty!"

He sneered at her before he went on. "And while you _say_ you're repulsed–"

"I didn't, but you're right; I _am_ repulsed."

"–Your body would suggest otherwise," Vlad continued, pointing at her.

Irina chuckled into her glass. "You know absolutely _nothing_ of my body," she told him, shaking her head.

When he raised his eyebrows at her, she looked away, because the truth was that - in her mind - she'd allowed him to know quite a bit about her body. During quiet moments here and there, when she was sitting in her window smoking tobacco, or last thing at night - staring up at the canopy over her bed as her hand crawled south.

Vlad immediately set out to prove her wrong. "...Oh no?" he stated.

"No."

He pointed two fingers at her breast, "Your heartbeat is dancing a saltarello, and you're gulping air like a fish out of water–"

"That's because I'm frust... because I'm _furious_–"

Vlad hummed. "Possibly. Which _would_ account for the way your knuckles – your _muscles_ – are clenching as tight as a clam," he replied balling his fist to demonstrate. "_Clamping_, even. Like your fingers around that glass... and your uh, _thighs..._ in that chair."

"Well, perhaps I'm uncomfortable in such surroundings," Irina suggested lightly as she uncrossed her legs and lowered her glass.

Vlad's blue eyes became piercing, "Perhaps, but it doesn't explain the pink skin across your face and neck, or the way your pupils have swollen like grapes–"

Irina scoffed as she glanced away.

"You're a student of medicine, Duchess," he said. "Which sickness do these symptoms point to?"

She rolled her eyes and buckled. "...Arousal," she huffed. "_There_, I've said it - you utter, utter scoundrel. Are you happy?"

Vlad grinned, running the tip of his tongue across his canines. "Elated," he replied. He raised his dark eyebrows, "And... what course of treatment would you recommend for such a thing?"

Irina sneered at him. "A cold bath," she tutted. "And then a trip to the church confessional, I think."

He pulled a face. "Hm. Well, I'm not a medical man myself, nor - admittedly - a religious one," he replied, "but I was under the impression that a thorough fucking was the cure for-"

Irina pounced, "Have you had any success with your inheritance?" she interrupted loudly.

Vlad threw his head back and laughed. "Ah, so we're changing the subject, are we? Alright then–"

"Not at all," Irina replied, trying to look unruffled, "I was... merely going to point out that... well, these dalliances surely won't help you in acquiring it. What if you were to become sick or sire a bastard? You are a _Count_ after all, are you not?" she added, recalling how the blonde woman had called him _Conta_, the Romanian word for Count.

Vlad simply smiled at her shrewdness. "…A title I acquired during my travels," he explained, nodding. "And there's no chance of either; so you needn't worry."

Irina's eyes dropped to his bare torso, only to spring off it immediately in a different direction. He certainly _looked_ fit and healthy. "Yes, you do seem to have a _strong_ constitution," she remarked, thinking about the night he'd stepped in and rescued her – how he'd flung the attacker across the alleyway. Her eyes flashed back of their own volition and trailed along his arms. She slapped a hand to her eyes, "Oh for goodness sake, will you _please_ put something on?"

Vlad was amused. "Why?"

"_Because_."

"That's not an answer," he teased.

"Because it's distracting, and I can't-"

He grinned proudly, "Distracting."

"-can't stop thinking about–"

"About what?" he asked, brushing his fingertips across his jaw as he studied her – a slow smile spreading across his lips.

Irina challenged his gaze, "About how you took a knife to the shoulder and walked away without even a scratch. I saw the wound myself, it's _impossible_."

Vlad gazed back at her for a moment before he spoke. "...You said it yourself, I have a strong constitution."

"Well, so do I, but if the boot was on the other foot and _I'd_ suffered the same injury then I'd _certainly_ have at least a scar to show for it," Irina replied, pointing to his chest. She swigged from her glass of wine, "And that's _if_ the wound had healed at all by now. Unlikely. _I'd_ probably be dead in a ditch somewhere, and yet, here you are! Fit as a fiddle and fumbling around with prostitutes."

Vlad chided her with a stormy look. "I do _not_ fumble."

Irina grinned; she held up her hands. "...Well, what would you call it?" _Feasting? ...Feeding?_

Suddenly it was Vlad's turn to change the subject. "So, you're doctoring now?"

Irina blinked at him; how did he know?

He lifted two fingers, pointing at a smear of blood – Sofie's blood – swiped across her collarbone.

Irina looked down and touched the smudge with her fingertips. She planted her wine on the side and then rummaged for a handkerchief. "…I'll deny it if anyone asks," she told him, dabbing furiously at the smear.

Vlad swiped his tongue across his lips as he watched her.

"People can be critical of women stepping into men's boots. I dread to think what everyone would say if they knew," she said.

Vlad grunted and shrugged his lips. "Some men are afraid of women who know their own mind," he told her. His eyes stuck to hers, "Though I confess I've always found them irresistible."

Irina sighed. "Well, that _would_ explain why all my patients are women. I've only taken on a handful – Fiebe, a few other ladies I know… and then my laundress was complaining about sores on her hands, so–"

Vlad looked puzzled. "Why should a Duchess care whether her laundress has sore hands?"

"I _don't_ care," Irina assured him as she pocketed her handkerchief and then scooped up her wine glass. She peered down into it, "I'm just amusing myself, I suppose. I told you – there's not much to entertain here in Hermannstadt. Plus, she touches my bed linen - and they were quite revolting. I _had_ to do something."

But Vlad didn't believe her. He snorted and shrugged.

"What?" Irina demanded.

"Nothing."

"You're thinking things, I can tell."

He narrowed his eyes. "Can you?"

"_Yes_," she replied. "You've a look when that mind of yours starts working. Your brows furrow and you keep brushing your middle finger across your lips-"

Vlad glanced down, and when he noticed himself doing it - the way he was leaning his chin in his hand, with one finger resting against his temple and the other moving across his lips, _just_ as she'd described - he straightened and frowned.

Irina smirked. "Yes, exactly like that."

Vlad waved his hand, "I don't understand it, that's all. You're determined to defend your reputation, and yet you're willing to risk it all to save a handful of women who you barely know and who owe you absolutely nothing. It's infuriatingly contradictory. _You're_ infuriatingly contradictory," he snapped.

Irina bit down on her lip - trying to hide the fact that his sudden anger amused her.

"I mean, you stole away to a brothel in the middle of the night to sit by the bedside of a dying whore," Vlad went on. "That's not something someone does to simply _amuse_ themselves, I think."

Irina shrugged. She lifted her gaze slowly. "Isn't it?"

"No. You're a _Duchess _not a doctor, Irina," he replied. "Isn't it your destiny to marry a King – or some mawkish, adolescent Princeling?"

Irina sniggered, but it quickly turned sour. Was that _all_ that her life was leading to? There was a Latin phrase all Austrian children - especially girls - grew up hearing at court; bella gerant alii, tu felix Austria nube. It meant, 'Let others wage war: you, happy Austria, marry.' Irina had always assumed it was all about foreign policy, but now it seemed to take on a new meaning for her. Let everyone else fight against tradition, but you, Duchess? You must be quiet and conform to it.

"Surely this _dalliance_ – if you're caught – won't help your cause?" Vlad suggested, echoing her own words.

She thought about it for a moment before she nodded, then replied. "...You're right, it won't," she agreed with a sigh as she set down her empty glass. "Believe me, Vlad, I've no desire to be an _un_conventional woman. I think I'd be quite happy to be snapped up by an ageing Count – or _Duke_, or something or other – and just forget the whole thing and spend my days going to the opera and–"

Vlad raised an eyebrow. "You couldn't be conventional if you tried."

She looked at him and tried hard not to grin. "I _have_ to be," she replied. "It's my duty."

"Says who?"

She shook her head and raised her eyebrows. "Everyone. The wretched world we live in."

Vlad held her gaze. "We make our own worlds," he told her. "If we have the courage to."

Irina savoured those words. She'd chew on them for days after, digesting them slowly - _purposefully_.

"…So, why do it?" Vlad asked, puzzled. "Why risk it all to heal a handful of sickly, insignificant peasants who are simply going to end up dead anyway. What's the point to it all?"

Irina shrugged. "…I don't know," was her very simple, honest answer.

Vlad waited, sensing there was more to be said, and – sure enough – after a moment's hesitation she frowned and continued.

"...My mother," she eventually muttered to herself. She looked up, "She died shortly after I was born... and well, I suppose I've always felt somewhat responsible. That it was my fault - _my_ fault that she died and that she had to give up her place in this world for me to have one in it. I thought it tremendously unfair. So as soon as I was able to understand what had happened to her, I wanted to know if anything perhaps could have been done... and – sure enough – in doing so I learned that the physician who attended on her missed the quite obvious signs – to me, anyway – that part of the placenta hadn't been birthed… which is why she ended up dying from infection. The fool didn't even _attempt_ to save her, and I mean, why would he even bother?" She raised her eyebrows and smiled sadly, "To him, she'd fulfilled her duty and my father would simply wed again - and _again_, if necessary_. _He didn't stop to consider - even for a moment - that to my father, my mother was irreplaceable and could _never_ be supplanted_... Would_ never be supplanted_._"

Vlad let out a noisy breath and shook his head. He'd been listening carefully with his fingers pressed to his lips. "...I'm sorry," he said, almost mechanically. "To lose your mother-"

Irina shrugged. "Well, I never really _had_ her. That's the point." She shook her head. "Anyway, as you can imagine, it made me absolutely furious – but more to the point, utterly, _utterly_ terrified as a girl – and then as a woman – that I would someday maybe find myself in the same bed and at the mercy of an equally inept physician," she went on. "I _hoped_ that if I educated myself then I'd never have to suffer the same fate as my mother... That's how it all started, I suppose."

Vlad nodded. "I understand."

"So you see, I don't want to squander my reputation or destroy my father's in the process – of course I don't – but I hate to watch other women suffer needlessly, especially at the hands of people who don't care about them. Who find them expendable, even. Not when _I_ can so easily offer help. Or, in the very least, _try_ to," She looked up and sighed. "...I just wish I could do it freely without having to sacrifice my own life in the process."

She'd never really thought about it before, but the truth was that she never thought she'd be of use as anything else other than a wife or a Duchess, and so she'd guarded her reputation because it was the _only_ thing that mattered in securing herself a good match and good a future. It hadn't occurred to her that she might make herself useful to the world in _another_ way – it just wasn't the done thing for women like her.

Vlad stared at her. "You once told me that you love opera because it allows you to feel in all the ways you never allow yourself to–"

Irina looked down and grimaced; she regretted telling him that. It had been too honest of her, too soon. "Did I? I don't remember," she lied.

"–I haven't been able to get it out of my head," he confessed.

She looked at him; she was amazed - and flattered - that she'd managed to occupy even the smallest corner of his mind. "Well, I wish you would; it was a foolish thing to say - I don't even know why said it."

Vlad forced her gaze. "It's a foolish thing for a woman like you to believe," he told her.

Irina was speechless.

He smiled at her, "_Irina_. I think you'd be a fearsome thing to behold if you ever decided to break free of this... this _prison_ you've imagined for yourself," he told her, gesturing wildly. "I mean, would it really be the end of the world if you allowed yourself your deepest desires? If you indulged in your desire to heal, to hunt, to fuck. To be your _own_ opera. To feast upon life without a care. It must be an exhausting and unsatisfying existence denying yourself all the time. Your life is far too short for that."

"…Spoken like the devil," Irina said with as she tilted her head as wondered what that might be like.

It would be like an eternity of Violet Tuesdays, she realised, and the thought of that was undeniably thrilling. She felt her skin prickle and the depths of her soul ache at such a thought. Did he think she didn't want to simply let go? She thought about it all the time, dreamed about it until she was sore.

"Well, as tempting as that might be, I can't afford _not_ to care," Irina told him with a shrug. "I'd lose everything if I didn't."

"Would that be so terrible?" he asked. "If it's money you're worried about… You're your father's sole heir, aren't you? You're set to inherit every–"

"It's not about the money," she snapped, offended by the suggestion. Although, she was equally offended at the thought of being destitute.

Vlad pursed his lips as he pondered a question. "...Then answer me this. If you had to choose between your life in Vienna - the life of a Duchess, the diamonds, the opera - and one where you had to give all that up but could doctor or do whatever you wanted and _be_ with whoever you wanted without consequence... which would you choose?"

Irina stared back at him blankly. "...I don't know," she replied honestly. "...I want it all. _All_ of it. I don't _want_ to have to choose, that's the point. I shouldn't _have_ to choose, and I don't think it's even slightly greedy of me to say so."

Vlad's lips curled slowly. He nodded, "So why _not_ have it all? Why not simply take it for yourself?"

"Because..." she began to explain, but stumbled over the words. She was becoming frustrated; she felt as if she was spinning in circles. She had to stop and think for a moment. She tried hard to articulate her thoughts honestly; she wanted him to understand them perfectly. "Because it's impossible, Vlad. I can't be a Duchess _and_ have everything I want. The two are completely incompatible. If I still want to keep my position and everyone's respect, then I-"

Vlad sighed. "Then I fear you'll be disappointed, Irina," he replied. "In my experience, it's foolish to try and control what others think of you. _That _is what's impossible."

Irina listened intently, then nodded. "…You're probably right, but that doesn't make it any easier."

"I'm not often wrong - as infuriating as it may be," Vlad replied with a genuine smile.

Irina raised an eyebrow. "_Incredibly_ infuriating."

He looked at her suddenly, "I have some notes on medicine and anatomy that might be of interest to you."

Irina snorted. "Oh, that's very kind of you. But I'd be _very_ surprised if I haven't already read them already," she replied. "There's rarely a book on the subject that escapes me."

"Trust me, you won't have read these. These are… one of a kind," he insisted.

"Oh?"

"As part of my inheritance, I've taken possession of a castle in the mountains a few miles east of here, and with it some rather fascinating reading material."

Irina smiled.

"Castelul Poenari," he said.

She blinked at him, "Dracula's Castle?" she blurted, remembering the story Helena Tarsus had told during Frau Fleischer's salon. "The old ruin in the mountains?"

Vlad's eyebrows bounced. "…You've heard of it?"

Irina smiled slowly as her thoughts began to race. "…Oh, one of the wives may have mentioned something about vampires and some other nonsense that I can't quite rem–"

"You don't believe in vampires?"

Irina narrowed her gaze. "...I don't know what to believe," she told him. _Particularly when it comes to you_, she thought to herself. "I'm a scientist; if I can see something and explain it logically, then I'll believe it exists."

Vlad paused – for what felt like forever – before he finally spoke. "Well. Perhaps you might come and visit me one evening," he suggested. "_Alone_, next time."

"...I'll think about it," she told him, knowing exactly what would happen if she allowed herself to go there and see him alone.

"Please do."

He told her about the castle; about a crumbling fortress perched on a mountainside in the snow, surrounded by forest – abandoned for two whole centuries. He spoke distantly of his childhood and his youth, and a wife who'd died long ago, and then in detail about his travels around Europe and the sights he'd seen along the way. He'd attended a masquerade in the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles, strolled across the icy Neva during a winter in St Petersburg, smoked tobacco and slept with a concubine of the sultan in Adrianople, and had even dined with the King of England, and to Irina – who'd been captivated by each story – it seemed such a lot to squeeze into a single lifetime.

True to his own words, Vlad was a man who feasted upon life without a care.

They talked for a long time after Fiebe had fallen asleep in the window and the candles had all but melted away. Irina decided to leave just before dawn broke, bidding Vlad a good day and lifting her hood as she slipped out into the hallway.

He took her hand and brought it to his lips, gently turning it over until the blue veins along her wrist were visible. "Iubita mea," he whispered, holding her gaze as he pressed a kiss to her wrist that warmed her right through to her toes.

Irina smiled. "La revedere," she replied with a nod.

He was surprised and smiled softly. "Oh, you speak my language very well."

She pulled a face. "Oh don't, I'm _trying_," she said waving her free hand as she began to move away. "Fiebe's been teaching me."

Fiebe scowled and folded her arms over the basket. Suspicion about this strange man and his intentions towards her mistress swelled and swirled like a stormy sea.

She watched closely as Vlad took Irina's hand tightly and pulled her back towards him. "…Sufletul meu era foame pentru altul ca al tău," he told her, brushing his thumb across her knuckles.

Irina had no idea what it meant but smiled anyway. He could have been muttering nonsense about the weather for all she knew, but to her ears it was as tuneful as an aria.

"…Think about what I said," Vlad urged, before Fiebe snatched Irina's wrist and dragged her away down the corridor.

"...What did he say?" Irina whispered when they were far enough down the corridor.

Fiebe frowned and shook her head. "I not listen," she grumped.

It occurred to Irina that she should check on Sofie one final time before heading home, but the inky darkness was already fading away to dawn and the risk of being caught by a scullery maid or footman when she returned to the palace was growing with every second. So, they tiptoed through the parlour and around the men and women snoozing half-clothed on the floor and in chairs, stumbling over shoes and wigs and empty bottles of wine. Not far from the door, Irina noticed the blonde woman again. She was reclining in a chaise fast asleep like a debauched sleeping beauty, with one arm thrown back behind her head and the other resting on her bare thigh. One of her mules hung from her toes, while the tails of her dressing gown had parted over one leg revealing a bruised bite mark on the inside of her thigh with two very real, very raw puncture marks.

When the woman began to stir, they rushed from the parlour and made their way downstairs, and they almost made their way out unseen until they stumbled upon Herr Carmitru climbing into his carriage outside. He was reaching out of the window to rap his hand against the door – a signal for the driver to go – when his green eyes fell upon Irina and Fiebe in surprise.

As she watched the carriage rattle away, Irina lifted a hand to her face and gasped. She'd left her mask behind.

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**"bella gerant alii, tu felix Austria nube": **"Let others wage war; you, happy Austria, marry." If Social Media had existed back in the 18th Century then you can bet that Empress Maria Theresa would have had this phrase plastered all over her Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram profiles (as well as #GirlBoss #HatersGonnaHate #That MeanethYouFrederickTheSoCalledGreat). The Habsburgs believed massively in successful dynastic marriages - that's why their empire was so vast. By the way, if you're UK based, there's a history documentary on BBC iPlayer all about the History of Vienna at the moment and episode 2 is pretty much all about Maria Theresa - if you're as big a nerd about that kind of stuff as I am._

_**"Sufletul meu era foame pentru altul ca al tău..." **Romanian, "My soul has hungered for one like yours."_


	13. Thirteen

** _Hermannstadt, mid December 1769_ **

Irina felt her blood run cold as she peered into her father's chamber pot. She'd poured over _every_ book she owned, tried every combination of herbs she could think of and yet still, he suffered terribly. The Duke had languished in bed for a whole week, groaning in pain and throwing up anything he ate – the vomit marbled with fresh blood.

The Duke looked up at his daughter from his cocoon of pillows and furs and smiled. "...Oh dear," he strained, reaching down to stroke Scapino – who was curled up on the bed beside him. "As bad as that?"

Irina's lashes fluttered as she covered the chamber pot with a napkin. She handed it to Fiebe, who whisked it away and out of sight. "…It's fine," she insisted, rubbing her hands in the apron she was wearing to protect her pink, satin gown. She shrugged, "Your body is simply… _purging_ itself."

Her father released a throaty chuckle. "Liar."

Irina perched on the bed beside him and took his hand. She squeezed it and forced a smile, "You're just having a bad week, papa," she insisted with a nod. "That's _all_."

"A bad _month_, you mean," he replied.

Irina's gaze hardened; she couldn't deny the fear that was clawing at her like a hungry cat, telling her over and over again that it wasn't just a bad week or month, that it was the beginning of the end. "You've been working too hard. You need to eat, and you need to rest," she told him, arranging the furs over his swollen belly.

The Duke looked up at her and frowned. "It simply won't do, Liebling. I feel as if I've been in bed since we arrived here," he complained. "I hate feeling so useless. There's work to be done, the whole system here needs reforming, the serfs need seeing to; the Empress is _counting_ on me to–"

"Well, she'll just have to wait, won't she?" Irina snarled. She wanted to snap that if governing Transylvania was really so important then the Empress shouldn't have sent such an old man to do it in the first place, but she bit down on that thought; it wouldn't help anyone now. "…Look, it's almost Christmas, papa. I imagine that back home in Vienna they're all probably far too busy feasting on honey cake and pickling themselves on Glühwein to care about what's going on _here_."

_No one's interested in what's going on here_, she thought to herself. But then she changed her mind; there was one thing occupying their attention.

Just as she'd feared, news of her upstaging Doctor Tarsus and her appearance in a local brothel had travelled all the way back to Vienna on the wind and to the editors at The Chronicle who had immediately pounced on it, teasing their readers with a lurid tale about a certain Little Duchess with a gruesome interest in flesh. Irina couldn't believe it. She was angry and humiliated; she dreaded to think what everyone was whispering about her back at court. The only blessing was that her father hadn't read the article – she'd balled it in her fist and flung it into the fire almost as soon as she'd finished reading it.

He certainly noticed the way she was staring through the floorboards though. "...What is it, Liebling?"

Irina tapped his hand as she stood up and untied her apron - shifting from Doctor to Duchess. "Nothing, papa. I was just thinking that you'll be back on your feet by Silvester Eve, I'm _sure_ of it," she lied as she tidied his bedside table, clearing away the soiled napkins and glasses. She picked up a half empty bottle of the digestive tonic she'd made for him and raised an eyebrow, "Perhaps even sooner if you'd take the medicines that I've been making for you."

The Duke sighed. "…It's not that I don't appreciate all the trouble you've gone to, Irina," he told her. "But all these tonics and infusions… they're just not working, and I've never felt so full and uncomfortable in my life"

"I think you're forgetting that summer at Innsbruck, papa," she said with a smile, recalling an Imperial Hunt and following feast. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"I couldn't possibly eat a thing–"

Irina shook her head as she picked up a pile of paperwork that had been hiding under the clutter; warrants, laws to be passed, letters and petitions, along with a map of Hermannstadt and the surrounding forests and farmland stretching right into the foothills of the lower Carpathians. A sneaky stack of government work he'd been seeing to while her back was turned. She _knew_ the tonics weren't working; _nothing_ was working. But most concerning of all was the fact that he was struggling to eat; the skin around his eyes had sunken slightly, his fingers felt bonier than they usually did – and yet his stomach had swollen up like a pumpkin.

"–I know you don't want to hear this – and _please_ don't be offended, Liebling," he whispered, "but perhaps it's time to send for Doctor Tarsus."

Irina glared at him, outraged by the idea. "Absolutely not!" she snapped. "I can't believe you'd even suggest such a thing, papa! The man will bleed you and cup you and then give up and call the Archbishop along, who will roll his eyes and shrug and call it an act of God."

The Duke closed his eyes. He was too weak to fight with her. "Perhaps it _is_ an act of God, and we should all simply give into it."

"Well, _I'm_ not ready to give in yet," she said as she snatched up the pile of documents sitting on the bedside table. "And neither should you."

"Don't get upset, I only meant–"

Irina blazed. "I'm not upset, I'm _angry_!"

The Duke found the strength to grab her arm – his bony, clammy fingers brushing along the extravagant lace cuffs of her gown. "This isn't what I want for you, Liebling – cleaning out chamber pots and mopping up blood like a nursemaid."

"I really don't mind," she insisted.

"But I worry about you," he told her. He chuckled suddenly, struck by a thought, "Your mother, God bless her – before you were born – she'd always insist she was sure she was carrying a future Queen. Everyone thought she was mad."

Irina laughed, but felt tears prick her eyes. "I might still become a Queen, papa," she said, forcing them back.

"The Empress was pestering me to make a match for you before leaving Vienna. She _begged_ me not to whisk you away and to instead make use of you... but forgive me, my liebling, I refused – selfishly, I told her I couldn't bear to part with you. I couldn't; I _can't_ just yet," he admitted, looking up at her with sad eyes.

Irina sighed. "Papa–"

"Perhaps I should have listened to her," the Duke went on. "The truth is I still can't bear the thought of parting with you, but now… Now I hate to think of me leaving you without any protection at all–"

When she felt an uncomfortable lump swell in the back of her throat and the threat of tears about to spill forth like a fountain, Irina frowned. "_Enough_. Stop feeling sorry for yourself - it's insufferable! You're not going anywhere," she scolded as she quickly bundled the pile of paperwork against her bodice and slipped her hand from her father's grasp. "You _need_ to rest. And I'm taking these papers back downstairs – you can look at them when you're feeling better."

Irina picked up her skirts with her free hand and hurried from the room, stopping briefly to order her father's valet to "ensure that the Duke takes his medicine".

As soon as she'd left the room, she broke. She slumped against the nearest wall with a hand clasped over her mouth as she choked on her failures, and desperately tried to smother that deep and cloying fear of what might happen if she failed _again_.

The painful truth was that – as an only child – she'd do very well out her father's death, but she couldn't bear the thought of losing him and being alone in the world. She already felt alone having lost her mother, her friends, her home. And now the whole court was pointing a finger at her back. Her hand shook as she fumbled and felt her way along the banister and down the stairs, bound for her father's study. When she reached the door however, she all but fell against it – gripping the handle as she tried to pull herself together.

Irina took a steeling breath, then opened the door. However, when she stepped into the room and found Prince Lupesci sitting at her father's desk poring over some parchment – quill in hand – she blinked.

He lifted his gaze from the parchment he was holding and raised his eyebrows at her - at the messy wisps of hair hanging around her watery eyes.

Irina swiped at them. "…What are _you_ doing here?" she sniffed, hanging on the door. "You shouldn't _be_ in here."

The prince looked concerned as he lowered both the paper and quill, then stood up. "Irina," he greeted her, stepping out from behind the desk. "Are you... well?"

Irina gripped the paperwork a little tighter. "Fine," she said, lifting her head. "I asked you a question, your highness."

The prince shrugged his lips. "Your father sent for me," he explained, waving his hand around. "There were a handful of documents that needed to be signed urgently; he wanted me to take a look at them for him - since he's confined to his bed."

Irina narrowed her eyes, glancing at the gilt desk her father had brought with him from Vienna piled neatly with documents and letters. He'd always been very particular about his paperwork; he arranged it personally and precisely. He wouldn't let just anyone touch or rearrange it. "…He mentioned no such thing to me," she said; knowing her father, if there were any urgent pieces of paper then they'd be upstairs beside his bed. In fact, she was probably carrying them.

Prince Lupesci folded his hands behind his back and seemed to consider his words before he spoke. "…I mean no offence when I say this, Irina - so please take what I'm about to say with the sincerity with which it's intended - but why _would_ he mention it to you?" he suggested, taking a step closer to her. "Such matters shouldn't concern you - they'd be of little interest."

Irina glared at him. "Perhaps you're right. I've never really had a head for politics," she agreed, matching his step. "But what _does_ concern me, your highness, is the fact that I've been sitting at my father's bedside since breakfast and I don't ever recall you being announced..."

The prince lifted his chin, bracing himself for a hurricane.

"So, either the footman is having an off-day, or," Irina went on, "You weren't invited at all. Which then begs the question; what are you doing in my father's _private_ study?"

She'd hoped to see some flicker of panic in his eyes at the accusation, but instead they remained frustratingly blank.

His smile was slow and slight. "Perhaps we should go and see him then," he suggested, pointing at the door. "Clear up the confusion."

Irina smiled back. Having played cards with the man more than a handful of times, she knew all too well when he was attempting to bluff his way out of a bad hand. "No," she replied. "He's resting now; I wouldn't want to disturb him."

The prince nodded. "Of course."

"But, I'll discuss it with him later," she insisted, sending him a sharp look.

"Our dear Governor," the prince sighed, shaking his head. "Always resting, never rested."

"And yet he refuses to be kept from his work, it would seem," she spat, tapping the bundle of papers she was carrying. "His duty to the Empress _always_ comes first – above everything, above his health…"

The prince peered at the papers. "Yes, he has some rather… _ambitious_ plans."

Irina sidestepped the prince and carried them over to the desk. "I'd expect no less from my father. Papa's an ambitious, brave and brilliant man - the Empress chooses her council wisely," she replied as she shuffled the papers and then arranged them neatly. She fought back tears as she contemplated the thought of losing him. "He was a soldier _long_ before he was a bureaucrat; he was instrumental in driving the Prussians out of Bohemia during the Seven Years War."

"So he told me. His great achievement."

"Yes, the Empress became rather fond of him after that – and not just for thwarting her arch rival, of course - which she enjoyed _immensely_ \- but particularly for always speaking honestly with her and his knack of bringing her around from one of her tempers. Although I think the Emperor is _far_ more grateful for _that_ particular talent of his; he's always been very good at steering her towards more moderate policy. Pig-headed women _are_ his specialty, after all," she said with a frown - and was unsure whether she was actually talking about the Empress anymore. She was thinking of her mother; of _herself_. "...In spite of what she says, she relies on him. She'd be lost without him."

"I'm sure... but now he has this radical notion to free the serfs - which seems contrary to her current policy," the prince replied, just as Irina's eyes fell upon the parchment he'd been reading before she stumbled in on him.

It was a letter from Amalia's older brother Joseph; the Empress' son and heir. He'd been co-ruling as Emperor with his mother for nearly five years – learning the business of ruling, as it were. He was a reformer, and his hatred for slavery in all its forms was well known. A quick skim read of the letter revealed that her father and the Emperor-in-waiting had been discussing the idea of freeing the Transylvanian serfs - floating the idea to the Empress that a compromise could be achieved _if_ the freed serfs promised to join the Austrian army for a time. A win-win, _almost_. It wasn't true freedom – really it was simply casting off one yoke for another – but at least it was a very small step in the right direction.

"…Would that be such a terrible thing?" Irina asked.

The prince snorted. "Terrible? It would be _catastrophic_, Irina," he replied. "This kingdom survives on the business of serfdom – it's done so for centuries; it's the foundation of everything. To change the system now would be disastrous for the economy. The serfs farm the land, they pay their taxes and in return we protect them–"

Irina scoffed. "Protect them from what? There's nothing to protect them from!"

He sighed impatiently. "Why do you think I've been so desperately trying to hunt out the monster who attacked you - who attacked those women? Your _maid_. Why do I bother spending hours out in freezing cold countryside stalking and then killing wolves? I do it because it's my _duty_. It's my duty to protect these people - this is the natural order. The system works very well as it is, it has done for centuries–"

"Perhaps it works for us, but it certainly doesn't for them," Irina disagreed. "It's outdated and cruel."

"But if we were to _free_ them, then they'd–"

"They'd _still_ pay taxes and farm the land, that much wouldn't change, except that they would be doing it of their own free will and for _themselves_, instead of being forced into it," Irina argued.

The prince couldn't – wouldn't – agree with her. He shook his head and chuckled. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he said dismissively, throwing his hands around. "I don't know I'm even bothering to try and explain it to you."

"Try," she growled.

He huffed, "They were _born_ to be serfs, Irina, just as _you_ were born to be a Duchess and I a Prince! They simply wouldn't understand how to _be_ anything else!"

She almost laughed at him. "Ridiculous! By that logic you're suggesting that I wouldn't know how to be anything other than a Duchess!" she said. "Which is absolutely absurd."

"Oh! So, if they were to throw down their pitch forks and abandon the fields en masse, you're saying that you'd happily pick up the slack?" he suggested.

Irina sighed and shook her head, "That's _not_ what I'm–"

"Because that's what they'll do if they're freed! Perhaps worse," the prince went on. "Show a dog a morsel and he'll want the whole meal."

Irina folded her arms and rolled her eyes. "The fact that you're comparing them to dogs just shows how backward this place and its people are!"

Prince Lupesci shook his head. "Your father _will_ make enemies if he goes ahead with his plans," he warned.

Irina glared at him. "...And I assume you're implying that _you'll_ be one of them," she guessed.

"…On the contrary," the prince replied, after a beat. "I am your father's servant; I only desire to guide him - to advise him. As brave and as brilliant as he might be, he's still unfamiliar with our ways."

Irina sat down in her father's leather, wing-back chair and folded her hands neatly on the desk in front of her. "Well, I'll pass on your concerns," she replied with a sour smile.

"I hope you will. He'd be wise to listen to them," he replied, bowing his head slightly before he turned on his heel and made a move towards the door. "…Oh and while I'm dispensing advice I should also warn you not to continue to make an enemy of Doctor Tarsus," he said, turning back. "He's been complaining that you've been stealing his patients."

Irina looked at him. There was no use lying or hiding anymore; she was tired of it, tired of _him_. "I stole _nothing_," she replied firmly. "Those women sought me out because _he_ failed to treat them. He point blank _refused_ in some cases. I couldn't abide it."

"Still Irina, he's furious," the prince said as strolled back over to the desk and placed his palms flat on the smooth surface.

"Well then let him grumble; I don't care," she snapped, sitting back in the chair. "...Anything else? Any other concerns?"

"Yes," the prince said, leaning over the desk and holding her gaze. "There's a rumour running riot that you were seen in a brothel. Not a place for a Duchess, I think."

Irina hesitated.

When she didn't respond, Prince Lupesci pressed her. "They're gossiping about it from here all the way to Vienna-"

"I'm aware."

"-They're calling you a witch and a harlot."

After a moment, she sighed. "Are they indeed. How original," she drawled, rolling her brown eyes and tapping her fingers on the arm rests of her father's chair.

The prince looked dutifully concerned. "This isn't a joke, Irina."

She huffed, "Look, I was treating a patient. That's all. I wouldn't have gone there otherwise, believe me."

The prince's eyebrows bounced. He rarely looked so surprised. "…It's true?"

_Why deny it? _"Yes, it's true," Irina replied. For perhaps the first time in her life, she'd decided that she was fed up of trying to be perfect. Fed up of attempting to control how everyone else thought about her. "Look, I know it was foolish, I _know_ shouldn't have, and – believe me – I tried not to... but everyone else had given up on the poor girl and I couldn't just–"

"With good reason."

"Not a good enough one for me!" Irina suddenly flared. She'd had enough – _more_ than enough. "Look,_ they_ might be able to look the other way and live with themselves, but I won't. Women – _all_ women, not just me – deserve better care, and they deserve to be sent away with a better course of treatment than to simply part with a little blood and then digest a book of psalms!"

The Prince narrowed his hazel eyes. "…And you were attending on this girl all night?"

Irina looked away. "All night."

He chased her gaze. "…It's quite the scandal, you know."

_Oh, for God's sake!_ "And yet, if I were to tell you that I stumbled across Herr Carmitru while I was there, you'd struggle to even lift an eyebrow. Because that would be perfectly commonplace, wouldn't it?" she replied with an irritable sweep of her hand.

"Herr Carmitru is a _man_, Irina," the prince reminded her. "There's a difference; men have needs–"

Irina stood up, "So do we!" she shouted, almost laughing. "So do we!" she repeated – slower – beating her hand against the surface of the desk with every word. "My God! I'm so sick of the same ridiculous and pathetic excuses for why men can do and get away with whatever they want!"

The prince straightened and took a step away from the desk.

"Do you really think that women don't have the _same_ desires as you do? You don't imagine that – given the chance – _we'd_ quite like to fight and to fuck and to make a difference in the world? To be instrumental for once rather than be simply ornamental? Our needs are _just_ as important as yours," she argued fiercely. "My God! Forget the serfs; what about _us_? _We're_ the ones who are desperate for a little freedom!"

Prince Lupesci observed her silently, then spoke. "You're hysterical, Irina; you're not yourself-"

"I disagree; perhaps I'm more myself than I ever have been," she snarled, feeling a shiver as she said the words.

"Perhaps I should call the doctor to–"

Irina would have laughed if she hadn't been so angry. "Oh, get out!" she barked, pointing at the door.

The Prince sighed. "As you wish, my lady," he said, bowing.

"Your highness," Irina hissed as she watched him turn to leave.

He stopped in the doorway. "One more thing–"

Irina pinched her nose. _Fucking hell_, "Oh, what now? If you even _dare_ to-"

"I'm having a ball at my home on Christmas Eve," he interrupted with the hint of a smile. "I haven't sent the invitations out yet but I'd very much like it if you came. Oh, and your father, of course. Providing he's well enough to attend."

Irina pulled a face. "…Aren't you inviting scandal by inviting such a _scandalous_ woman?"

He thought on it for a moment, then shrugged his lips. "I'll take the risk," he said as he slipped out and shut the door behind him.

Once he was gone, Irina let her head fall into her hand with a long sigh. She rubbed her fingers through the creases in her forehead; if she'd been worried about her father before, now she was practically terrified for him. He was sick, the last thing he needed was a mutiny amongst the nobility – and she _certainly_ hadn't helped matters; the last thing he needed was everyone calling his daughter's morals into question. And now she'd gone and shouted at the leading local noble. _Fuck_. He needed to get better, and quickly.

She didn't trust Prince Lupesci as far as she could throw him. How _dare_ he sit at her father's desk, reading his private letters! Who did he think he was? The Emperor?

She glanced to the side and noticed a stick of her father's green sealing wax balancing on a silver saucer, and when she reached out and picked it up, she found that the end was still soft and pliable - slightly warm – having recently been melted in a candle flame. Her father's metal seal was also sitting nearby, little blobs of green wax dried around the edge.

Irina's mouth dropped. "...That scoundrel!" she gasped as she snatched up a parchment nearby that had been signed and sealed.

She ripped it open without a care. It was a law instructing that only the nobles were allowed to hunt the forests surrounding Hermannstadt, and that the bounty for wolves killed would increase tenfold. Violators could be punished by death. The signature was her father's, but the law had Prince Lupesci's name _all_ over it. She wondered how many others had slipped through without notice. But what could she do about it? Her father was quite possibly on his death bed, Vienna was slowly turning its back on her - on them both - and the council's power was clearly growing.

Irina shook her head. She'd never felt so desperate in her life as she slammed the paper on top of the pile she'd brought down from her father's room – on top of the map of Hermannstadt and the spine of mountains curling around it.

She frowned as her eyes settled on one corner of the map and a castle far from town, surrounded by forests and perched on a precarious mountain path. She opened one of the desk drawers and grabbed a magnifying glass; her fingertips traced over the name of the fortress.

_Castel Poenari._

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**Glühwein: **Lovely, lovely mulled wine. :-)_

_**Silvester Eve:**_ _New Year's Eve_

_**Seven Years War: **Some people call **The Seven Years War** the first "true world war" because it involved so many great powers in Europe and impacted events for centuries after it was over and done with. It basically broke out because Britain and France had a bit of an argument over their new territories in America, and then pretty much all the great powers in Europe piled on and caused a free for all. Maria Theresa absolutely HATED Frederick the Great and still held a grudge against him for taking a small chunk of her empire (Silesia) from under her nose when she'd first come to the throne. She was hoping to get it back, but failed. The main outcome of the war (besides almost bankrupting everyone involved) was that all the old alliances and partnerships in Europe shifted for good._

_**Emperor Joseph: **Poor Joey. After his father died, his mother - the Empress - allowed him to sit in on council meetings and offer suggestions for reform. He was more enlightened than his mother and wanted to allow his future people more freedoms than they'd ever had before - including serfs, but his mother was strict and of course had the final word and a lot of their council meetings ended up with him storming out and stropping like a teenager. His mother was a total force to be reckoned with after all! Still, she died in his arms - and I'm certain he loved her if not respected her very deeply. In the end, he was a pretty good Emperor and the arts and music especially flourished under his rule (Mozart *woop woop*) - but he died feeling as though he hadn't accomplished anything special (which was totally wrong of him to think so and leaves me feeling a bit sorry for him) - I kind of get the impression that he'd always felt a little inadequate and in his mama's shadow. :-)_


	14. Fourteen

"Bless me father for I have sinned," Irina said as she knelt down before the slatted, wooden screen within the confessional. "I believe it's been… _well_. Now let me think; it must be at least… yes, _six_ months. It's been six months since my last confession."

_Had it really been that long?_

She glanced down at the blood red beads of the rosary entwined around her clasped hands – a name-day gift from the Empress that had lain entombed in the bottom drawer of her dressing table ever since leaving Vienna. She'd completely forgotten that she'd put them in there for safe keeping and had let her breakfast to go cold that morning as she ripped her room apart trying to hunt them down.

"…Yes, I think that's right," she whispered, wrinkling her nose. "…_Sorry, _excellency."

There was an impatient sigh from the other side of the screen, and then a flicker of light as Archbishop Sigismund made the sign of the cross. "You're here now. Better late than not at all. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti," he muttered. "May the lord be in your heart and upon your lips that you may _truly_ and humbly confess your sins."

Irina dutifully crossed herself and then took a breath, but when she opened her lips to speak – strangely – she found that she couldn't seem to find the words.

The Archbishop sighed again. "…Please, there's no need to be shy my lady; unburden yourself," he gently urged.

Irina pressed her lips to her folded knuckles and closed her eyes.

After a week of fitful sleep and sensing her resolve slipping, attending confession had seemed like the only obvious thing left to do. She'd found surprising comfort in it over the summer months after Amalia had left court for Parma. Slipping out of the palace to visit the cathedral and ramble her worries away to whichever priest was unfortunate enough to be sitting in the confessional at the time had helped her to deal with the loss of her best friend – her usual confessor. She hoped that attending confession now would work to ease her thoughts just as had done back then.

She'd still written to Amalia of course; she'd jotted down everything bothering her in painstaking detail. A reply wouldn't arrive for weeks, but the process of purging her thoughts onto paper seemed at least to take the edge off. She'd scrawled page after page panicking about and pondering over her father's declining health, and had completely destroyed a quill when she scribbled about thick-headed Hungarian nobles and how the whole town - the whole Empire - was constantly gossiping about her... and not in a good way. How she longed for the days when they gossiped about her making a fool of herself falling off the back of a sled, or whispered about the neckline of the gown she'd chosen to wear to the opera.

But when it came to sharing the _other_ thing – or rather, the other _person_ – that had been keeping her awake late at night, she stopped short and sat at her writing desk for a long time stroking the feathered end of her quill against her lips.

If she couldn't tell her best friend _everything_, then what hope did she have of spilling her deepest, darkest thoughts in a confessional booth? And now that she was safely cocooned within its wooden walls, kneeling at the partition – she felt silly.

"Tell me, child, what sins have you committed? Confess them to me, and all will be forgiven."

Irina raised her eyebrows and tutted. "…I _confess, _eminence_,_ that I don't know why I'm here," she admitted. "I feel... I feel _lost_. And alone."

Vlad immediately strolled out from the shadows of her mind just as he'd done that day in the woods. "Are you lost?" he'd asked her, a small smile on his lips.

"_God_ has brought you here," the Archbishop answered from the other side of the screen. "He can sense when a soul is in danger; he's led you here because he _wants_ to welcome you back into his flock."

Irina's gaze was sharp as she peered through the wooden slats. Oh, she was in danger, alright. She didn't need anyone to tell her that; she could feel it deep down in her bones - pushing out against the confines of her corset. It wasn't so much the sinking feeling in her stomach about her father that had her on edge, or fears about the town quickly turning against them both. Of course, she was concerned about both of those things, but neither of them disturbed her sleep or preoccupied her mind in the quite the same way as Vlad did.

During quiet moments when she wasn't nursing her father or fretting about Prince Lupesci's hold over him, he would slip easily into her head and make himself at home. He liked to dwell in the darkest corners of mind – in the shadowed cloisters – where the blackest shades of her soul liked to lurk. And whilst she'd allow him to tempt the wild out of her in her head, something held her back from doing the same in reality. How hypocritical of him to attempt to force her hand when he was holding his own cards so close to his chest! Irina couldn't seem to shake the feeling that if she were to gamble now and lay her own cards down flat upon the table in front of him then she'd lose. She wouldn't do it – _couldn't_ do it – not until she knew exactly what he was holding back. Not until she was certain of exactly what she was getting herself into.

Perhaps she could force his hand; after all, she knew she was going to have to go to Poenari and visit him – just in case the rare medical notes he'd mentioned had the chance of helping her poor father in some way. Still, she feared for her soul if she did.

The Archbishop's silhouette nodded slowly. "Fear not my lady, for the lord is merciful to those who are _truly_ penitent," he insisted. "…So, tell me. What is it that weighs on your mind?"

Irina scoffed when she realised that she was wasting her time; that she wasn't going to find the answers she was looking for sitting around in a wooden box. She began gathering her velvet skirts, "I think that perhaps this can wait. I'm sorry for wasting your time, emin–"

"A warning; if you leave now, Duchess, then you'll be banned from receiving holy communion," the archbishop said.

Irina paused and frowned. "I beg your pardon? Why?"

"Since, a soul in a state of mortal sin must not receive the body of our lord without having first received sacramental absolution," he explained.

"And who _says_ that I've committed such a sin?" she demanded. "I know _I_ certainly didn't; I've barely uttered a word."

The archbishop turned his head and slid open the screen.

Irina blinked at him.

"The very fact that you're here tells me you have _something_ to confess, Duchess. And I think we both know - Lord, the whole town knows - that you're racking up quite the list," he whispered, "so I _strongly_ advise you to seek penance before it's too late."

Irina couldn't believe what she was hearing; she gaped at him and tightened her grip on the prayer beads. "…Or _what_?"

The archbishop looked at her, "Be advised; you may have powerful friends, but the world is beginning to turn – and to turn away from you, Duchess," he said, shaking his head. "Beware that God does not do the same; all that he's given, he can take away."

Irina would have laughed if she hadn't been so angry, and _frightened_; not of God, but of what might happen if the world really did turn its back on her. She wanted to snap that he'd have to fight her for it; that he'd have to prise it from her dead hands… but she wasn't stupid. The last thing she needed was to make things worse. She'd noticed the way the people in the market stared at her as she'd made her way across it, and even though she still was nowhere near fluent enough to understand much of what they whispered about her - she knew it wasn't anything good. So instead, she swallowed her pride and leaned on the sill separating the confessional; she folded her hands neatly – one on top of the other – with the scarlet prayer beads still entwined around her knuckles.

She bowed her head, "You're right; I'm a sinful woman – and _completely_ undeserving of everything I have - everything God has so generously given me," she sighed, before putting on a convincingly remorseful performance fit for the stage of Die Burg – sweeping her hands like a woeful soprano as she confessed that she hadn't been herself since her father had become sick. That she feared for him, and for herself. That she longed to be forgiven.

Archbishop Sigismund lapped up her aria of half-truths, absolved her and then sent her on her way – adding that he hoped to see her at mass.

Irina emerged from the confessional to the sound of the choir practicing a mournful Dies Irae for a Requiem Mass. She pocketed her prayer beads and lifted the hood of her velvet cloak over her head; she was anxious to hurry back through the snow to the palace and to return to Folie and Fiebe_ (who she'd charged to sit by her father's bedside)_ and the warmth of the fire, but all that was forgotten when she strolled past a blonde woman who she recognised, but couldn't remember why - and from where.

There was a moment – as their gowns brushed in the middle of the aisle leading from the altar to the vestibule – where the woman's heavy-lidded blue eyes locked with Irina's murky, brown ones, and an expression of vague familiarity passed over her puckish features. Her gaze washed covetously over the deep, blue pleats and ruffles of Irina's velvet polonaise as it swished and swirled like the tide, before dropping to the stained, ochre-coloured hem of her own gown as she walked on.

Irina's pace across the flagstones stuttered as she tried to recall where on earth she'd seen the woman.

There was something about the playful curl of her nose, and the way her heavily rouged cheeks dimpled that was all too familiar, and yet, she racked her brains for the whole length of the aisle. Then, when she reached the heavy wooden door leading to the square, she suddenly remembered.

Irina stopped as her mind flashed back to the dark, creaking corridors of a brothel. To a candlelit bed, a naked embrace, and a bite glimpsed from the shadows.

"…It's _her_," Irina realised out loud, spinning just in time to see a flash of yellow silk slipping into the confessional.

She raised her eyebrows as the door clicked shut; if Archbishop Sigismund had given _her_ a hard time, then God only knew what he was going to say to _that_ woman. But more to the point, what was the woman going to say to _him_? If there was anyone in Hermannstadt who knew the truth about Vlad, then it was her, and Seal of Confession or not, Irina worried what the archbishop would do if he happened to overhear that there was a man out there paying to bite whores whenever he pleased. What if he simply assumed that Vlad was responsible for the attacks? The council were still desperately hunting for the culprit, and the town was quietly on the edge of descending into hysteria over it.

Irina immediately decided that if she ever had any hope of finding out who Vlad was - _what_ he was - then she needed to speak to the woman.

And so, she waited.

She slipped out onto the frosty square and took shelter from the swirling snow and the noise of the market beneath a covered arch – positioning herself so she could both hear the soulful sound of the choir practicing and see the comings and goings through the main door. The wind was biting, and she was frozen through to her bones by the time the woman finally emerged from the church – but she was determined not to miss her chance.

Irina stepped into the woman's path just as she slipped through the doors counting a handful of gold coins. "Scuzati-ma," she said. "…I'd like a word."

Affronted, the woman quickly pocketed the coins and wrapped the scanty cloak she was wearing tightly around her body. "Oh, not this again!" she groaned as she tried to sidestep Irina. "Look, I'm sorry but it's not my fault how your husband chooses to spend his money – whoever he is – go take it up with him."

Irina stopped her. "No, no – I'm not married," she said as she tugged at her glove and show the woman the bare knuckle where a wedding ring would have sat.

The woman's blue eyes widened as she chose instead to look at the spectacular sapphire band sitting on Irina's middle finger.

"I'm not here to blame or to shout," Irina promised as she slipped her glove back on. "I just want a quiet word, that's all."

The woman arched one of her neatly plucked, blonde eyebrows when she suddenly realised who she was talking to. "…You're that vrăjitoare who killed Sofie – I _knew_ I recognised you! I saw you leave that night – sneaking out like a rat," she snarled in a rough and rasping voice.

Despite her attempts to purge the poison from Sofie's body and stave off any infection, the poor girl had been carried off the following evening. The brothel madam - bitter at losing one of her girls - had clearly been spreading vicious lies about what had happened.

The girl took a step back, "Stay the hell away from me, vrăjitoare!"

Irina raised her hands. "Please, I'm a doctor, not a witch; I tried to _save_ Sofie–"

"Ha! Să mori tu! And I'm the Dauphine of France!" the woman snapped as she tried to shove her way past.

Irina huffed as she blocked the woman's path once again. It was funny, she really did bear a striking resemblance to little madame Antoine; she had the same ash blonde curls and the same bright, blue cow eyes – but that was where the similarities ended.

"If only you shared her manners!" Irina remarked. "Do you have the _slightest_ idea of who you're talking to?"

The woman looked Irina up and down. She pursed her lips, "…Well, from the clothes and the jewellery – and the way you're looking down that speckled snout at me – I'd say you are someone who _thinks_ they are very important," she grunted.

Irina took a breath, then smiled. "Just a bit; I'm the Duchess of Brunswick. The _Governor's_ daughter. So I kindly suggest that you adjust your tone."

The woman narrowed her eyes; she stared at Irina for a moment, then turned her head and gazed off into the snowy square. She tutted, "The men… they talk about you."

"_Which_ men?"

"All of them," the woman replied, scoffing. "…And none of it good."

Irina stuck her tongue in her cheek and shook her head. "And you believe all that nonsense, I suppose?"

The woman suddenly grinned, her pink cheeks dimpling. She folded her arms, "I know better than to believe the shit men like that spout. And besides, I know a whore when I see one - and you are not one," she replied, raising an eyebrow. "So. What is it you want from me, Duchess?"

Irina took the woman's arm and gently steered her away from prying eyes. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed, "I need to ask you a few questions about one of your clients."

The woman nodded. "Hm. What's it worth to me?" she asked, holding out her empty hand.

Irina glanced down at it.

"You want something from me, you pay like the rest."

Irina groaned. "Oh fine," she said as – one by one – she gently teased the diamond earrings from her lobes. "_There_," she said as she dropped them into the woman's hand.

The woman shrugged her lips as she lifted one of the earrings up to the light to get a better look. "…These made of paste?"

"They're real!" Irina snapped, outraged. She'd never worn a paste jewel in her life.

The woman chuffed. "They look too big to be real," she complained.

"Well, give them back then," Irina said.

"No," the woman pouted as she pulled away and quickly inserted the diamonds into her own ears.

Irina sighed.

"So. Who is it that you want to know about?" the woman asked as she tucked the wisps of blonde of hair framing her face behind her ears – so the diamonds were prominently displayed. "He must be very important, no? Is it the archbishop?"

"The archbishop?" Irina gaped, suddenly realising that the woman hadn't been confessing her sins to him after all. "...No."

"Or the mayor? Such a needy man," she sighed, shaking her head. "He's not one of mine, but… I can tell you what his girl tells me–"

Irina lifted her eyebrows and considered it. Revenge _was_ rather "Tempting," she admitted. But sighed when she remembered who the mayor's wife was. She couldn't do that to Carmelia - she was gossiped about enough. She shook her head, "But no, that's not who I wanted to ask you about."

"So, who?"

"…The Count," Irina said.

The woman's whole body stopped. She quickly shrugged and then shook her head – the diamonds rattling, "I don't know who that is."

Irina was surprised. She looked around, "...What? I'm talking about Vlad – _La Conta_," she elaborated quietly. "And, I think you _do_ know who he is–"

"I'm sorry, I _don't_," the woman grunted. She snatched the diamonds from her ears and forced them into Irina's hand. "You can have these back; I don't want them."

Irina was incredulous; she glanced down at the diamonds and sneered. "...You're lying," she said. "Why are you lying?"

"I'm _not_ lying," the woman snapped as she moved to walk away. "Go away. Leave me alone."

Irina clenched her fists. She wasn't sure whether it was plain jealousy or utter desperation that made her reach out and snatch the woman's wrist, but it was certainly anger that drove her to drag her into a nearby alcove and shove her up against the cold and clammy wall of the church.

The woman thrashed as she was pinned in place. "Let go of me!" she squealed, but quickly snapped her mouth shut when Irina pulled out her pocket pistol and armed it with a threatening click.

The woman's gaze was frenzied and fearful as Irina reached down with her free hand and grabbed a fistful of stained, dandelion-coloured skirts; she rucked up the hem until the woman's goose-pimpled thighs were exposed to the cold air.

The woman panted like an angry horse. "…What are you – who the _fuck_ do you think you are!? Let me go!"

Irina looked down; she brushed the leather-clad pad of her thumb over the mottled and bruised remains of a bite mark, and then shoved the skirts down. "…I want to know about the man who did _that_ to you," she demanded as she disarmed the pistol and then stepped away.

The woman sagged against the wall, glaring at her. She swept an errant strand of feathery blonde hair from her eyes, "Fucking bitch. You're mad."

Irina suddenly looked down at the gun in her hand and felt her stomach drop. What was wrong with her? "Probably…" she agreed as she quickly pocketed it. She wasn't sure what had come over her - the stress of everything was affecting her more than she was willing to let on. Still, that wasn't an excuse.

"…How did you know?" the woman asked.

Irina looked up at her. "Because I _saw_," she replied, pacing back and forth. "I saw the two of you together. I _saw_ what he did to you."

The woman stared at her.

Irina swallowed down the lump in her throat. "…I think I _am_ mad. Look. I'm sorry," she apologised. "I shouldn't have grabbed you like that. I don't know why I did it. I can give you something for the bruising if you like; a mark like that can't be good for business."

Silence filled the space between the two women, as did the snow as it drifted down from the smothering blanket of grey clouds.

The woman raised her eyebrows and sighed. "…Look," she said. "You can push me around like a peste and give me every diamond in your jewel box… But he pays me well for my silence as well as my pizda. I won't tell you anything… or tell anyone else who asks."

Irina looked at her – _really_ looked – at the way she was leaning her head against the wall and staring softly off to the side.

"I could never betray him, like that," the woman told her.

Irina nodded as she stepped next to the woman and leaned with her against the wall. She looked down at the diamonds sparkling in her fist and suddenly wondered, "Why? What is he offering you?"

The woman turned her head and scoffed. "You aristocrată! And you wonder why your men come to us – no one tells you anything of this world," she complained.

Irina rolled her eyes. "That's _not _what I meant," she replied. "I understand perfectly how these sorts of... _transactions_ tend to work; I just don't understand what you're getting out of it. Other than bruises. Seems rather one-sided to me."

"I told you," the woman said. "He _pays_ me."

"Well, yes, so you say… but how much and in what way? Because you just turned down twelve thousand gulden worth of diamonds," Irina elaborated, showing the woman the earrings sitting in the palm of her hand, sparkling like morning frost. "I should think that would be a career-changing sum of money for a woman like you."

The woman stared longingly at the diamonds.

Irina closed her fist, snatching them away. "So, I see only _two_ explanations," she went on, clearing her throat. "Either you're in love with him… or, he's offering you something even the Empress can't buy."

The woman laughed – rolling her body along the wall towards Irina. "…You _really_ want to know?" she asked.

"I _really_ do," Irina replied, turning to face her.

The woman lowered her voice to a whisper and traced her finger along the brickwork of the church. "…You go to church, yes?"

"Yes, of course."

"...Do you believe what they say about eternal life?" the woman asked.

Irina was confused but nodded anyway. "...I think so."

The woman hummed. "So do I. I want that. I want to live forever," she replied. She stood up, smirking as she pushed away from the wall. "…But, I do not pray to God for it," she explained, before lifting her hood and walking away.

Irina stared after her.

"…Enjoy your diamonds!" the woman called back over her shoulder.

After that, Irina headed straight for the book store. She realised that - while she'd reread every single medical book and paper in her personal library - there was one book she hadn't consulted. A book she'd once borrowed and returned. A book full of pseudo-science, superstitions and suspicions. Perhaps the only book with the answers she was looking for. _Magia Posthuma_. Having exhausted every logical answer, the time had come to turn to illogical and illusionary. She bought a copy, took it back to palace and camped out at her father's bedside as she read it - cover to cover. This time she read it with open eyes and without the skepticism and cynicism she'd held all those months ago, and for the first time considered the fact that Vampires might be real after all.

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**Dies Irae:** A Dies Irae is a latin chant/hymn describing the final judgement - "Day of Wrath". You'll usually find it in a **Requiem Mass** \- a Catholic Mass for the dead in general, or for someone who's recently passed away. If you want to get a feel for what they sound like, check out Mozart's (epic and unfinished) Requiem in D Minor. CHILLS. (Also, I've got a playlist of music that I listened to while writing this story - it's a mix of modern, soundtrack and classical music - let me know if you want it and I'll give you the link.)_

_**Polonaise: **I talked about robe à la française in a previous chapter, well, a _ _**robe à la polonaise **(Polish) is another type of gown popular in the 18th century, and known for its tucked ruffles and pleats, bunched up to display petticoats underneath. It was kind of based on how working class women styled their clothes - they used to tuck their overskirts up to keep them out of the way and out of the mud, and soon the nobility adopted the style as a "Walking Dress" to wear when out and about during the day. The style kind of came back into fashion the 1880s with the ruffles and pleats designed to be worn over a bustle. :-)_

_**Seal of Confession: **Probably obvious, but Catholic priests are bound not to reveal whatever they hear during confession. It's absolutely forbidden, no matter what they hear (unless the the person confessing allows them to do so, in rare cases, and even then they're supposed to keep their anonymity) and can result in excommunication if they break the seal. Even today, as far as I know, priests aren't allowed to divulge what they hear - even to testify in court._

_**"Vrăjitoare":**_ _Romanian, Witch._

_**"Să mori tu":** Romanian, "No way!"/"Yeah right!"_

_**Dauphine of France: Marie Antoinette** (Antoine) - Amalia's baby sister. She was briefly mentioned in Chapter One, where her possible marriage to the future King of France (the Dauphin) was being arranged. She actually didn't make the journey to Versailles and officially become Dauphine until the 19th of April 1770 - but all the negotiations were complete and most of Europe would probably have known that her destiny was to become Queen of France. I've got a soft spot for Antoinette (as I do for most historical women if I'm being honest - in case you haven't noticed, I treat my historical male characters very badly!) - she wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the box, and her education had kind of taken a back seat while she was growing up. No one expected her to become Queen of France, after all! She was terrified of her mother, overshadowed by a lot of her more capable siblings and desperately wanted to please. She was definitely lumped in at the deep end, poor girl. I watched a documentary the other day where some bloke absolutely lambasted her for being promiscuous (WRONG) and callous towards the poor (WRONG) and wanted to throw my shoe at the TV. Ugh! Traditionally history has been written by men, it's only recently that women's history has finally been rewritten honestly and without bias._

_**Peste: **Slang for "Pimp"_

_**Pizda: ***ahem* "Cunt"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you were all expecting a trip to Poenari this chapter; don't worry - it's coming, I promise! Happy Friday! And - since I won't be seeing you until next Friday - Merry Christmas!


	15. Fifteen

A couple of days before Christmas, Ferenc came to visit his sister. It was a Saturday afternoon, the last market day before Christmastide, and – although it was one of the only days of the week where he _wasn't_ expected to serve his master and was therefore able to go out and earn his _own_ money – he'd chosen to spend the time with his very small family of one. His sister.

Irina was more than happy to allow them a little time together, and while they sat down beside the fireplace and talked – she curled up in the window smoking tobacco with Folie sleeping at her feet as she pored over the notes in her ledger and caught up with her letters.

There weren't as many letters as there usually were; a few so called friends back in Vienna had stopped writing to her as soon as the rumours had reached them, and those who _hadn't_ stopped writing, wrote far less frequently than before. Amalia still wrote, of course; she'd heard the rumours but refused to let them cloud her love for her best friend. She was just as lonely, it seemed, and had written close to ten pages complaining about the court in Parma, her mother _(who she wasn't speaking to)_ along with a detailed description of some infuriating French minister who was pulling her husband's strings. Irina sympathised _(although it had all honestly seemed a bit trivial to her)_ and had scribbled just as many pages in response about the equally infuriating Hungarian Prince who was attempting to pull on her father's strings. She signed off with a little well-meaning nudge for her best friend to make amends with the Empress – "what I wouldn't give for a meddlesome mother, Mal."

In between the letters, she perplexed over her notes _(including the phrases she'd plucked out of Magia Posthuma and added in the margin)_, brushed her fingers over the rough, ink sketches of blood cells and translucent, white cells – as well as the strange, metamorphosing – _mutating_ – hidden cells that she'd discovered in Vlad's blood. Both sets were differentiated and labelled clearly in her swooping handwriting. HUMAN BLOOD, and "V" BLOOD. V for Vlad. V for _very_ strange. V for very everything, really.

"Tell me the truth, Ferenc," Fiebe suddenly insisted in Romanian.

Irina tuned her ears as she looked up; she blew a stream of smoke into the air and gazed off towards the misty mountains on the horizon. She didn't _mean_ to eavesdrop in on Fiebe and Ferenc's conversation; it wasn't so much that she was _trying_ to listen to what they were saying, more that she was testing herself – seeing how much of the language she could understand. They spoke as quickly and as fluently as native speakers tend to do, and sometimes just picking up a familiar word was as difficult as distinguishing a single raindrop on a rooftop during a downpour – but Irina surprised herself when she found she was able piece together a few fragments of their conversation, just like a puzzle.

"Is he still cruel to you?" Fiebe asked her brother as she continued stitching an intricate pattern of silver vines and leaves all along the satin sleeves and pleats of the gown Irina had chosen to wear to Prince Lupesci's Christmastide ball.

Ferenc scoffed. "…Nothing I can't handle," he replied, brushing a rough, beaten hand through a crop of hair the same soft strawberry blonde shade as Fiebe's.

Irina imagined that he might be handsome if he scrubbed up. He was boyish and tall with long limbs, sullen brows and a set of slightly sunken, heavy amber eyes. He had long fingers that she imagined might have made themselves useful playing a harpsichord or violin in another life, but instead they were mottled with scratches and scrapes from the snares he used to serve his master. They'd annoyed Irina the last time he'd visited, and so she'd made a healing balm for Fiebe to give him for Christmastide.

"I'm lucky, sis. I don't have it as bad as the others; I hardly see the bastard. I'm always outside checking the fences and the traps. And with the bounty on wolves caught, I can earn a little extra and have a bit of fun - you know," he added with a wink.

Fiebe swatted him.

"There's been some trouble in the kitchen with rats, so I'm going to need to go to the house next week. But I'll do the work, I'll do it well enough, and then? I'll be gone," Ferenc went on. "I don't need to see that bloated sack of shit anymore than I need to… Especially now that I don't have to worry about you being trapped like a mouse in that house all day. With _her_."

Fiebe looked visibly worried; the hand holding the needle hovered in mid-air, and she seemed to shrink into herself somehow – hunching her small shoulders as she glanced off into the fire. "…Yes."

Ferenc lowered his voice. "...Maria told me last week that the bitch had another one of her fits over a dress," he whispered. "She asked one of the girls to pick up where you left off - Lena, I think it was - you know, the one with the lazy eye. Anyway, the stupid girl didn't know what she was doing – used too big a needle and snagged the silk. Two hundred gulden worth of Italian silk, ruined."

Fiebe's blue eyes widened. "Dumnezeule." She tutted and shook her head as she continued to carefully pull the needle and thread through the silk; slowly, just as her mother had taught her. "She must have been mad with rage."

Irina wasn't entirely sure what Ferenc said next; the only word she recognised was _tongs_ and from the way he was gesturing with his hands and the way Fiebe threw one of her own to her mouth and gasped, she suspected that the tongs hadn't been used to curl the poor girl's hair. She frowned as she recalled the old scars and burn marks on Fiebe's forearms the night she'd been brought to her and wondered how anyone could be so cruel.

"_Scorpea_," Ferenc spat. He reached out and gently placed his hand over Fiebe's – the one holding the gown neatly in place across her lap, "It's good you escaped, Fiebe. I'm glad."

Fiebe smiled and nodded. "And so will you. _Soon_."

When Ferenc's amber eyes wandered in Irina's direction, she quickly scooped up a new letter from the small pile sitting beside her – busying herself.

She chewed on her tobacco pipe and she pondered over the rigid, scratchy handwriting for a moment before she turned the letter over in her hands. The red, wax seal she _did_ recognise, however; the chalice, swirling serpent and crown was the symbol of the Royal Physician. Gerard van Swieten.

Irina's heart began to pound as she folded the letter between her fingers and broke the wax seal. _Finally, a reply_! she thought to herself as her eyes skimmed the letter.

Van Swieten wrote that he'd been surprised but pleased to receive a letter from her, and – despite bloodwork admittedly not being his area of expertise – he'd read her findings with great interest. _(Great interest!)_ He said that he was aware of the translucent cells she'd seen through her microscope _(which had apparently been discovered by a Frenchman and called __"__globuli albicantes"__ – or white cells)_, but he said that – in all his years of practicing medicine – he'd never encountered nor heard talk of the shifting cells _(which he labelled with a question mark as "globuli mutatio?" – mutating cells)_ that she'd sketched and described as being present in "V" Blood – nor the strange accompanying symptoms. Even though he – _sadly_ – couldn't offer her an explanation _(other than the cells being symptomatic of some kind of blood disorder)_, he said that it was an intriguing discovery, and asked whether he could send her notes on to a friend teaching at Leiden University _(Leiden University!)_ who specialised in the study of blood.

Irina was giddy as she lowered the letter; thrilled by the thought of her notes being read by a physician of Leiden University. She picked up her quill and added to her notes, labelling the strange, shifting cells as "globuli mutatio" and then adding the question "Possible Blood Disorder?" underneath the section describing "V" BLOOD.

So, a Blood Disorder then? she thought to herself as she glanced out of the window. A disorder of the blood that – contrary to the course of most diseases – _empowered_ the subject, instead of weakening them. It fired the body with incredible strength and speed, as well as creating within it the ability to heal quickly. And – if the girl from the brothel was to be believed – all these things combined endowed the subject with eternal life. The downside? A need to drink human blood to make up for a deficiency in red blood cells.

Irina was relieved to read a sensible, scientific opinion on the matter, if not the direct answer she'd been hoping for. She was beginning to realise that the only person who could give her that was Vlad himself.

She frowned as she drew a small, snaking arrow rising up from the "V". At the end of the arrow, she reluctantly added the word "Vampire?".

"…Does the Ducesa treat you well?" Ferenc asked Fiebe. He pointed to the gown she was embroidering, "I see she's got you slaving over silk and satin."

Fiebe nodded eagerly. "She is very kind to me – and you know I enjoy the work," she replied. "We are friends, I think."

Irina smiled as she carried on reading Van Swieten's letter.

Ferenc's lips pulled. "…Still, you should be careful," he warned. He glanced over his shoulder before he spoke, "I've heard all these troubling rumours about her–"

Fiebe huffed. "_Lies_," she insisted, as she took her teeth to the silver thread and snapped it.

"Sis, they're saying she's a witch–"

Fiebe scowled. "She's a _healer_!" she insisted. "Like Ileana Cosânzeana."

"But what about that girl – that whore from that brothel by the steps? She died less than a day after her visit," Ferenc said. "That washerwoman is convinced she killed her – and you were there with her!"

Smoke curled from Irina's nostrils. Despite everything she'd done to help the girl, the washerwoman had believed every single one of the rumours circulating about that night – about how The Governor's Daughter had poisoned Sofie and then left her to die. Irina's bedsheets had remained unwashed for two weeks until she gave up and stripped them herself. And even though she _knew_ that the damage had been done _long_ before her visit, Sofie's death still weighed heavy on her heart.

"Yes I was there! There was nothing the Ducesa could have done – the girl _poisoned_ herself to get rid of the baby growing inside her," Fiebe insisted, leaping to her defence. She reached out and brushed her fingers over the fading scratches and scrapes covering her brother's knuckles, "Just look at what she's done for you, Ferenc – for _us_."

Ferenc looked down and nodded. "…I know," he replied softly. "I just worry for you, puşti. I don't want you getting dragged into anything."

Fiebe smiled. "Tâmpit! Her father - he wants to _free_ the serfs, Ferenc!" she told him. "Can you imagine how much better life will be for people like us?"

"…No, I can't," he replied with a frown. "Because it will _never_ happen."

Irina blew a ring of smoke towards the window and watched it fog upon the glass. If Prince Lupesci had his way, then Ferenc would be right. And, as her father's health continued to decline, it seemed more and more likely that the prince _would_ get his way. Unfortunately, Van Swieten hadn't offered much help on that front in his letter; he'd echoed her fears that The Duke was suffering from some kind of ulceration of the stomach – possibly cancer – and was only able to offer some suggestions for pain management. If only there were a way for him to develop that strange blood disorder, he'd suggested, before wishing her and her father well.

"If only," Irina muttered to herself as she allowed her gaze to drift along the horizon – over the peaks and troughs of the snowy mountains and the spectre of a ruined castle.

She realised that her options were running out. She'd been holding herself back, until now, unsure and afraid of asking favours from a man she hardly knew and wasn't entirely sure she trusted – but if there was even the slightest chance that she could help her father, then she had to go. Everything seemed to hinge upon his recovery.

Sensing a lull in Fiebe and Ferenc's conversation, Irina folded the letter and dropped it onto a pile with the rest. She opened the window and tipped out the ash from her pipe – watching the sparks swirl off into the sky. "Ferenc, how is the weather out there today?" she asked him in German – after all, she didn't want him to know that she'd been eavesdropping.

He looked up at her, his features painted with confusion. "…Crisp and clear, Ducesa."

Through the vines of frost painting the window and the lumps of snow perched on the sills, the air was clear enough to see the jagged line of mountains in the distance – the late afternoon sun shining a ripe hue onto the snow.

"Good. Perfect weather for hunting," Irina announced.

"Hunting?" he repeated.

As she stepped over Folie's body, the dog's ears pricked. Folie was a clever dog; she'd learned what the word _hunting_ meant a long time ago and even liked to listen out for it. As soon as she'd heard it, she was up onto her feet and following Irina like a shadow with her tail whipping from side to side.

Fiebe abandoned her work. "But, Ducesa… it's _late_," she said as she tucked in her needle and folded the gown over the back of the chair. "The sun – it will set in a few hours and–"

Irina shrugged. "I'm not afraid of a little darkness, and besides, twilight's often the best time to catch deer on the move," she told her. "I've been inside all day and I think a little fresh air would do me the world of good."

Fiebe narrowed her blue eyes. "Good from what?"

Irina clapped her hands together, "Enough questions – destul de multe întrebări – could you please fetch my riding coat. The black, velvet Brunswick with sable around the hood."

Folie barked excitedly, bounding towards her – tail thrashing.

Irina chuckled as she stooped and scratched the dog's muzzle, smoothing her hand through soft, brown fur. "Not this time," she told her. "You stay here and keep Scapino, papa and Fiebe company–"

Folie whimpered, but obediently slid down onto her belly with a yawn.

"–And make sure she doesn't work on that gown all night," Irina added, more for Fiebe's benefit than Folie's. "She'll ruin her eyes."

Fiebe sighed. "But you cannot go alone, Ducesa," she complained as she went off in search of the coat. "I send word to ask Prince Lupesci to join you–"

Irina pulled a face into the mirror sitting on her dressing table. "Absolutely not! I can't think of anything worse!" she snapped as she took one of her pistols out of the drawer, set it down and then set about brushing her hair and applying a little rouge. She swept the long, brown curls away from her face, tied a black ribbon around them, and then threw them over her shoulder. "I was actually hoping that your brother might oblige me," she said as she scooped up a pair of gloves and her mask.

Ferenc looked alarmed. "…_Me_, Ducesa?"

Fiebe suddenly appeared with the coat. "Ferenc? Why?" she asked, watching closely as Irina shoved her ledger into a small, velvet drawstring bag.

"Well… he's heading back that way anyway – aren't you?" Irina replied, looking at Ferenc. "And… well, I just thought that since he knows the surrounding countryside so well, given his position… he might know all the best spots for hunting deer."

Fiebe narrowed her eyes; they swept suspiciously over her mistress' tousled hair, fresh rouge and the mask she was clutching along with the bag – her fingers twiddling with the ribbons and cords impatiently.

Irina groaned when she noticed how Fiebe was staring at her. "Oh for heaven's sake, what is it? You're thinking things."

Fiebe tutted and shook her head. "Nothing, Ducesa," she replied as she helped her mistress put on her coat.

By the time Ferenc had reluctantly agreed and two horses from the stables had been saddled, daylight was quickly fading away. And as they galloped through the cobbled streets of Hermannstadt and burst through the town gates into the countryside, the lamp lighters were already pottering around with their ladders and cans of oil. They rode southeast towards the forests and foothills of the Carpathians, following the icy river as it snaked through fields and farmland along the way. When they reached a fork in the road – a choice between the southern mountain pass and the well-trodden road to Braşov – Ferenc dragged on the reins and came to a stop in the snow.

"The river widens up ahead near Avrig," he shouted, turning the nose of his horse towards the Braşov road. "The deer go there to drink at sunset. We should be just in time, I think - if we move fast."

Irina removed her mask – untangling it from her hair. "Actually… we're not going hunting," she told him as she shoved the mask into one of her saddle bags.

Ferenc was confused. "…But I thought–"

"I lied," Irina admitted as she lowered her hood and sent him an apologetic look.

Ferenc steered his horse and trotted back over to her – the stallion's breath fogging on the frosty air. "Then why the hell did you ask me?"

Irina cast a glance towards the dark outline of the mountains. "I need to go to Poenari," she explained "And… I need someone I can trust to take me there."

Ferenc threw his head back and cackled at the dusky sky – at the blue clouds drifting over ripe sunset hues of pink and purple. "Poenari! Dumnezeule!" he grunted, swiping a hand across his mouth and slightly bearded jaw. "Why the hell do you want to go _there_? The road's a _coșmar_ – a nightmare, you understand? – worse now it's winter. And once you get there, the castle's nothing but a stone shell, Ducesa. A wreck! A ruin crumbling into the lake below it."

Irina shrugged her lips and smiled. "Sounds rather picturesque actually."

Ferenc snorted and waved a hand at her. "Dracului de nobili, tu ești la fel," he muttered under his breath.

"…Look," Irina said, attempting to rein in her temper – after all, he was entitled to be angry with her. "Someone I know lives there – he's only recently inherited it. He must be restoring it, I suppose – but that's not the point, the point is that I _desperately_ need to speak with him."

Ferenc spat into the snow. He scoffed as he leaned on his thigh and looked at her. "I should have known," he said. He smirked and nodded, "This man, he's your _iubit_ – your… your lover, yes?"

Irina's eyes widened; she was outraged. "Adjust your tone, Ferenc! I think you've forgotten who you're speaking to," she barked, gripping the reins a little tighter.

Ferenc sighed. "…Forgive me," he said, but clearly didn't mean it.

Irina softened a little – she _had_ lied to him, after all. "…Look. My father – the Governor – he's very sick, Ferenc. Probably – I'm told – on his death bed," she explained. "And, this man who lives in Poenari – the man I _desperately_ need to see – he might have something that could save him or in the very least, ease his suffering a little."

Ferenc scowled as he pulled his gaze away from her and fixed it on the snowy horizon.

Irina's dark eyebrows pulled together. "Forgive me for mentioning them, but if there was even the smallest chance that you could have saved your mother and father – even if it meant travelling somewhere far away on a foolish whim, on even the _slightest_ possibility that it might make a difference," she said, "you would have done it – without hesitation – am I right?"

Ferenc looked at her. He shrugged and then nodded. "…Of course, I would have," he replied. "I would have done anything."

Irina nodded.

"…But why all the secrecy, eh?" he demanded, waving his hand at her. "The mask, lying to my sister–"

Irina looked down. "I know–"

"–She looks up to you, you know."

"I know."

"And, why go _now_, at night?"

"I _know_. I know it's difficult to understand, but no one – _no one_ – can know that The Duke is actually dying. And the man that I need to…" she tried to explain, but her voice trailed away. "Look, I didn't want Fiebe to worry. You know what she's like; she's _protective_. And besides, the whole town's already gossiping about me and saying the most horrendous things…" She practically sneered at him as she suddenly switched from German to Romanian. "I'm a witch, so they say. And a whore."

Ferenc looked sheepish as he fished around in his saddle bag for a metal flask filled with brandy. "…I don't believe that," he told her as he spun the top and then took a swig. He licked the dregs from his lips and then swiped the sleeve of his jacket across them, "I didn't mean to say that you were… I just worry about my sister, that's all."

Irina rolled her eyes and smiled. "I know you do. It's so sweet I could vomit," she replied, raising an eyebrow.

He looked at her and then quickly averted his gaze. "Well... She's all I have, so-"

"I'd never let anything happen to her," Irina promised. "I hope you know that."

"I do; you saved her life," he said, although he seemed to be trying to convince himself.

"…I did," Irina replied, nodding. "But that doesn't mean that I own it."

Ferenc held her gaze sullenly.

"She's my friend as well as my maid - and I _mean_ that," Irina admitted, and suddenly felt a pained look pinch her expression. "…Perhaps my only friend at the moment."

Ferenc stared at her as she sniffed – the setting sun warm on her skin.

"I'm sorry your master is so cruel to you," Irina suddenly said. "…What if I were to buy your freedom?"

Ferenc practically laughed. "If I take you to Poenari, I suppose? Sure!"

Irina wrinkled her nose. "Well, I was sort of hoping you would do that for me anyway," she replied. "But, I'll try and buy your freedom even if you don't."

Ferenc blinked at her. "...You mean it? You're not just saying that?"

"Brothers and sisters shouldn't be separated, and besides – I need to hire a groom I can trust to take me hunting," Irina told him.

Ferenc practically blushed.

"I _really_ don't want to have to rely on Prince Lupesci to take me – the man has absolutely no idea what he's doing with that ridiculous crossbow."

Ferenc chuckled as he took another swig from his flask. "...Alright. You have yourself a deal, Ducesa," he said as he capped the flask and tucked it back into his saddle bag. He steered his horse and then snapped the reins, "But we should hurry if you want to get to Poenari before nightfall."

Irina lifted her hood, then kicked in her heels and trotted alongside him as they set off on the mountain path. "…So tell me, who is your master?"

"Didn't Fiebe tell you? My master is the mayor," Ferenc replied. "Herr Carmitru."

Irina stopped; she couldn't believe it.

Ferenc looked back at her; he wasn't sure why she was so surprised. It was common knowledge that the mayor owned much of the farmland around Hermannstadt and most of the serfs with it.

_But, then that would mean…_ "You're telling me that Fiebe's old mistress was _Fraulein_ Carmitru?" she asked. _Carmelia?_

"Of course - who else?" Ferenc shouted back as he galloped on ahead.

* * *

They rode for an hour along the old, crumbling road through the mountains. A road that had once been trodden by Turkish Janissaries that meandered through a rising valley between the snowy mountains and weaved back and forth over a partially frozen river below. The mountains seemed to rise up around them – looming threateningly in the encroaching darkness – and Irina wondered how Vlad could have travelled so easily back and forth from Hermannstadt. It didn't seem like the sort of road to take a carriage easily; there were rocks big enough to unhinge a wheel for a start, and some of the snow drifts were deep enough for the horses to have to wade through.

Eventually though, the river snaked off to the right, the valley opened out, and there, right above them – almost balancing on a clifftop – was Castelul Poenari.

The sun was setting just behind it and illuminated the crumbling red bricks and bastions as if they were on fire, while the old turrets sagged beneath layers of snow. It looked more like a fortress than a castle or a palace, and Irina imagined that a hundred or so years ago it had been something quite spectacular. But Ferenc had been right, it was just a stone shell now and she wondered how Vlad could call it home.

It was a steep climb through the surrounding forest to reach the castle itself – the horses leapt up the rock face and zig-zagged between the trees – but the path evened out and soon they were riding along the clifftop towards a splintered, black drawbridge half buried in snow.

Irina lowered her hood and gazed up at the castle.

The windows were like dead sockets in a skull – hollow, dark and lifeless – whilst the old wooden balconies and brattices were charred and practically hanging off. There were gaping holes in the masonry and the old fortified wooden doors were splintering and hanging from their hinges. The castle looked as if it hadn't been occupied for centuries – the last tenant having been evicted by what looked to have been a violent blaze. The stories that Helena Tarsus had regaled her with about Dracula, were as fresh on her mind as the snow on the castle's sagging rooftop.

There were no lights, no servants. There were no signs of life at all.

Ferenc suddenly appeared alongside her, the fading sun illuminating his amber eyes and golden hair. "…Are you sure your man said Poenari?"

Irina nodded. "I'm sure," she replied, sounding very unsure.

Ferenc wiped a hand across his jaw and shook his head, "The last man who lived here died centuries ago, Ducesa," he said. "The soldiers and nobles burned it down when they thought he was a vampire. He kidnapped girls from the village and drank them dry, so they say. They say he was Vlad Țepeș, returned from the dead. _Dracula_."

"…And so, they burned his fortress to the ground and drove him out of Transylvania for good – but in doing so unleashed his curse upon the world," Irina replied dramatically, reciting Helena's words.

Ferenc looked at her. "You know the stories?"

Irina sent him a bored look as she urged her horse up the unsteady drawbridge. It creaked and groaned under the added weight – and her heart almost stopped when she imagined the whole thing snapping in two and sending them both off the cliff edge – but the horse leapt forward and to safety, trotting up the cracked stone steps that led through the gatehouse and into the courtyard.

The wind didn't howl as much within the embrace of the castle walls, but the courtyard was just as unwelcoming as the outside of the castle had been. It was empty, and half in darkness – old bits of burned furniture and fallen masonry buried beneath piles of snow – and as Irina slipped down from her horse the last of the early evening sunlight was retreating from the castle – fleeing through cracks in the walls.

No groom nor footman came to greet her.

"…Vlad?" she called out as she snatched the reins of her horse and led it over to the bottom of a stone staircase.

The sunken steps led up from the courtyard into a painfully medieval cantilevered gallery up above – a covered walkway looking over the courtyard with doors leading off into the surrounding towers. She tied the reins around the rotting banister and then set off up the staircase, the hooves of Ferenc's horse suddenly sounding out in the courtyard behind her.

"Ducesa, be careful!" he called out as she scooped up her skirts and began to ascend.

Irina ignored his warnings and explored the ruins like a child; clambering up every step, peering through every window and over every wall from top to bottom. And although much of the castle had been ransacked and burned, the rooms were still haunted by a ghost of their former glory – from the vaulted ceilings and faded murals and torn tapestries, to the vast stone fireplaces and broken and rusting iron chandeliers.

Just when it seemed she'd explored every crevice, Irina stumbled upon an old spiral staircase leading to the top of the tallest tower. She climbed them carefully, and when they finally fell away, she reached a space – a room – where only the crows cared to roost. She gasped and grinned at the view of the surrounding valley, forests and lake below from the large hole where the wall had tumbled away.

The wind whipped her hair and the tails of her coat as she dug her nails into the bricks and peered over the edge. The sky was pink, the full moon was bright, and in the distance - tucked within a spine of snowy mountains - she could see Hermannstadt glowing beyond the forest – smoke from the burning log fires muddying the sky above it.

She smiled softly; it was a beautiful view.

A voice suddenly beckoned her from behind. "…Are you lost?"

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**Leiden University: **One of the oldest higher education institutions in Europe, Leiden University was the place to go if you wanted to study all things medicine. Big 18th names in medicine went there, like Herman Boerhaave, Bernhard Albinus and Gerard Van Sweiten - but of course, women were barred from studying. There were a couple of women in the 18th century who pestered hard enough to be allowed to study for a degree at other universities - like Laura Bassi (an Italian physicist who earned a PhD from Bologna University and went on to lecture there) and Dorothea Erxleben (who got a special dispensation from Frederick the Great to study medicine at the University of Halle)._

_**"Puşti": **Romanian, "Kid"_

_**"Tâmpit": **Romanian, "Stupid"/"Idiot"._

_**Brunswick:**_ _More fashion history for you! The easiest way to describe a Brunswick is to get you to imagine a hoodie made of satin and fastened at the front. They were traditionally worn as travelling/riding gear._

_**Avrig: **A small town outside of Hermannstadt in the foothills of the Carpathians. It actually became the summer residence of the Governor of Hermannstadt - but I think that's just a little bit later than when this story is set._

_**"Dracului de nobili, tu ești la fel":**_ _"Fucking nobles, you're all the same."_

_**Turkish Janissaries: **Ottoman Turkish for **"New Soldier"**. Janissaries were a special group of soldiers that made up the sultan's bodyguards and private army. The truth is that they were slaves - and actually westerners. During Vlad's time especially, The Porte (The Ottoman Government) would head to the western fringes of their empire every five or so years and kidnap christian boys between 8 and 15. They'd be taken from their parents, carried off to Constantinople, forced to convert to Islam and then trained to become elite fighting machines. The whole process was called **Devshirme** \- which means** "Child Levy"/"Blood Ta**_ _x" and the whole point of it was (not just to create a massive army) to build the empire and diminish the fighting population of their enemies. I_ _f you've seen **Dracula Untold**, then you'll have seen Devshirme in action. So sad. :-(_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I know - I'm a terrible tease! I can't wait for you to read Chapter Sixteen, it was one of my absolute favourites to write. I don't want to give away too much, but we're going to be flashing back to the infamous Violet Tuesday and the masked man Irina keeps ever so subtly mentioning. Who could he possibly be...? ;-)
> 
> Have a lovely week you lot (hope you had a lovely Christmas and are enjoying a slow and easy Twixtmas!) aaaaand Happy New Year! X


	16. Sixteen

** _Vienna, Violet Tuesday 1764_ **

She _knew_ she'd be spilling over with regrets when dawn arrived, but while the darkness still reigned, Amalia refused to care. And as the church bells chimed eleven – the sombre tolling a warning – she scooped up her midnight-coloured skirts and velvet cloak, slipped off her shoes and stockings and waded out into the fountain.

The last snow of winter had barely melted away – a few flakes still fresh over the cobbles, like the powdered sugar dusting the last batch of krapfen before Lent – and yet, even though the icy waters stole her breath away, at least they served to soothe her tired feet.

Amalia threw her head back and watched the stars blur as she spun. "Glücklicher Karneval!" she cheered to the handful of men dressed as harlequins crossing the square – the bells on their costumes jingling with each step. "Asteria shines on you!"

Irina raised an eyebrow behind her golden mask. She was perching on the edge of the fountain, leaning back against one of the bronze statues. "…Are you happy now? Now that you've dipped your toes in Destiny's Spring?" she asked as she smoothed a hand over the pink and saffron ruffles of her gown – her costume hidden beneath her black, velvet cloak. "What secrets does she hold in her waters? Hm? Love? Death? Fortu–"

"Feathers…" Amalia replied, wrinkling her nose as she waded over – hobbling past a few floating grey and white feathers.

The water sloshed and slurped up the sides of the fountain.

Irina smirked, "Well, I _did_ warn you that pigeons like to use it as a giant bathtub, Mal," she said, snatching up the end of her cloak before it was ruined by the rising tide. She lowered her voice a little, "I won't bother telling you what the market men like to do in it–"

"Pardon?"

Irina sat forward, "Nothing – shall we go?"

Amalia looked aghast – her blue eyes wide within her silver mask, "What? But why?"

"Well, it's nearly midnight–"

"_Nearly_ midnight! There's still an hour of Violet Tuesday left!" the archduchess complained, pouting as she paddled. "A whole hour left of Karneval. An _hour_ before it's gone! Gone! Gone forever!"

Of all the feast days on the calendar, Violet Tuesday was the one that they looked forward to the most. It was final night of _Karnival_ – the final opportunity for reckless indulgence before Lent began – and after a morning spent in prayer and confession, the afternoon was always a frenzy of feasting, wild games and performances by acting troupes to celebrate the end of winter, culminating in an extravagant masquerade ball where ladies – in a rare reversal of roles – could ask gentlemen to dance. It was the only night of the year where court rigmarole was _(mostly)_ set aside, and – with the aid of a costume and a mask – you could be anyone you wanted to be, whether a Greek goddess or simply your true self.

But it was outside of the Imperial Palace – on the cobbles and down the alleyways of Vienna – was where Karnival truly raged without rein. There were parades during the day, where harlequins danced through the streets with bears on chains and rung bells to chase away the winter – carrying with them on their shoulders a coffin full of flowers that they'd dug up to symbolise the resurrection of spring. When the sun set, the city became wild and wanton with balls and parties where every indulgence and desire could be and would be fulfilled.

And so, they donned their masks and cloaks and stole away from the palace and the watchful eye of the Swiss Guards to see it all, Amalia dressed as Asteria of the Stars and Irina as Eos of the Dawn. They'd shared a bottle of champagne in the palace gardens, watched an acting troupe performing Molière outside the cathedral, and finally, had crashed a ball at the Schwarzenberg Winter Palace – dancing until their feet throbbed. It had been wonderful.

Irina sighed, "What do you mean, _forever_? It's gone for now, but it'll be back again next year," she said as she scooped up her friend's silver shoes – the stockings and silver, satin garters tucked safely inside.

"But who knows where we'll _be_ next year, or if we'll even be here at all!" Amalia complained, frowning as she swirled her toes through the water. "Think about it, Rini; _seriously_. I might be married off by then; my mother's already scrambling to find a husband for Liesl, and Mimi's _desperately_ trying to put off marrying our cousin - she's still terribly brokenhearted over Isabella's death, and-"

"Isabella?" Irina asked. "Your brother's wife?"

Amalia nodded scandalously. "...I'm not supposed to say anything, but they were _lovers,_" she whispered.

Irina's mouth dropped.

"A blotch my mother's rather keen to cover up quickly - which means that _I'll_ soon be next."

Irina looked up at her friend. She couldn't argue with that. She shrugged and nodded, "I suppose so…"

"What if this is to be our last Karneval together?" Amalia asked as she wrapped an arm around the statue of a naked, bearded God fishing from the fountain. She ran her finger down his gleaming, bronze chest, "Our last chance to have some fun! You _know_ what they say! 'She who does not eat and drink on Karneval until her little finger stands, will not be full or happy all the year round!' Come on, there's still time to find a man and ask him to dance…"

Irina laughed. "I think you've had _more_ than enough to drink," she pointed out as she hopped down onto her feet and dusted down her skirts. She held out the shoes, "And you danced with Prince Karl, remember?"

Amalia grinned at the statue and then kissed its lips. "…I did a little more than just dance with Prince Karl," she purred, clasping her hand over the statue's mouth. "Shh, don't tell."

"Alright, Asteria, come on; it's time to go," Irina chuckled, wiggling the shoes at her.

Amalia snatched them away. She stuck her tongue between her lips and blew, "Oh Eos, you unbearable stick in the mud! Won't you hold back the dawn for a little while longer, just this once?" she insisted as she tiptoed out of the water and then sat down on the edge of the fountain. She plucked a stocking out of one of her shoes and then hoisted her skirts up and over her knees - so high you could see the tops of her thighs.

Irina raised her eyebrows and quickly lifted the tails of her cloak like a curtain – shielding her friend from prying eyes. And to think of all the trouble she'd had convincing Amalia to steal away with her in the first place – she was certainly paying for it now. "The only thing I'll be holding back are your curls while you vomit into a chamber pot," she grumbled.

"Oh, come on! We _can't_ leave before midnight!" Amalia insisted as she pulled on her stockings and clumsily tied a garter around each. "Look, there's a gaming house just around the corner – _Der Blaue Karpfen _– I've heard Joseph mention it a couple of times. He knows _all_ the best places. Why don't we end the night with a game of chance?"

Irina was unsure.

"Oh please! _One_ game! And then we'll go back. I _promise_!" Amalia pleaded, clasping her hands together.

And so off they went to gamble away the last hour of Karneval. And it seemed that quite a few people had decided to do exactly the same thing, because _Der Blaue Karpfen_ – tucked away in the crypt of an old, baroque palace near the cathedral – was full to the brim and bubbling with music and laughter. Everyone was wearing either a mask or a costume, and so Irina and Amalia shed their cloaks without fear of being recognised and wandered from room to room meandering around the gaming tables – where masked men and women played games of dice and cards – and into the salon where there was dancing and drinking. As midnight drew near, beneath a haze of candlelight – and in cloisters shrouded in sheer, charmeuse curtains – men and women coupled like may flies in a nuptial dance upon champagne-stained chaise.

Amalia quickly sobered and sought Irina's hand as they watched the silhouettes swaying and stuttering like candle flames. "…You know what? Perhaps we _should_ go back…" she suggested as a passing gentleman admired the diamond stars stitched into her gown and sparkling in her blonde hair.

Irina turned her head towards her friend's voice and yet her eyes remained transfixed; she'd never seen anything like it in her life – and instead of being outraged or alarmed, she found herself captivated. There was something alluring about it – in the same way she sometimes had to stop herself from touching a candle-flame or inhaling its smoke.

"…But we're here now," she replied with a slight shrug, idly fingering the gleaming, black pearls around her neck. She glanced over her shoulder at the felt table behind them, where a game of piquet had entered high stakes – the pot in the middle under the candles piled high with wax-bled bills, chips and jewels. "We might as well enjoy ourselves… you said it yourself, it might be the only chance we get."

Amalia took a breath and nodded. "Keep your mask on, Eos," she warned, before heading off in search of a drink.

Irina wandered through the madness as if in a trance, until she stumbled upon a table where two men were deep into a game of Mariage – her _favourite_ game – and seemed to have drawn quite a crowd. They were seated on opposite ends of the table with the dealer in between and couldn't have been more different if they'd tried. The gentleman on the far side of the table was a fop – with whipped blonde curls, and a powdered face behind his mask, and more frill and lace embellishments on his pink jacket than she had on her own gown. He fanned himself with his cards and complained with a sigh that the game would last into the next century if his opponent didn't play his cards a little quicker.

His opponent – who appeared to have come dressed as a shadow – reclined comfortably in his chair and paused a moment longer. "Unlike _you_, sir… time is not my enemy," he drawled in a foreign voice as he finally plucked a card from his hand and threw it into the middle, trumping The Fop's card with the Jack of Hearts and winning the hand.

The Fop scoffed and shook his head as he scooped up his glass of wine and threw it back between painted lips. He swiped his tongue along his yellow teeth, sneering at his opponent.

The banker took the winning hand and piled it with the rest of the tricks taken by The Shadow, who seemed to be closer to winning the pot of chips, bills and diamonds in the middle of the table. "Two points to The Count, who leads forty-one to twenty-two," he announced to the small crowd's applause. "Count's lead."

A lady standing nearby fanned herself. "He's quite the predator," she whispered to her friend. "Do you know, he hasn't lost a game all night."

As the next hand was played, Irina edged her way around the table – switching sides until she stood hip to shoulder next to The Fop and could steal a glance at his cards, and – more importantly – The Count. Her lips parted as her eyes fell upon him for the first time – upon the subtle smirk playing on his lips as he rearranged his cards, the mischief peering out from behind his black, velvet mask, the simple but elegant cut of his black suit – as much a part of him as his own flesh – and the wild waves of dark hair tied at his nape.

Irina peered over The Fop's shoulder as he stole a hand from The Count, trumping his nine of spades with an ace, and bringing the score a little closer – forty-one to thirty-three. They'd killed the deck and were down to only the cards in their hands – the final few plays of the game.

The Fop chuckled. "I have you now, sir," he declared as he rifled through his remaining cards and then plucked out the seven of clubs – declaring clubs to be trumps. "You _and_ your diamonds, I wager!" he added, nodding at the diamond necklace furled on top of the pot like a sparkling snake.

Irina peeked at The Fop's remaining cards. The seven was nothing more than a throwaway; he still had one big trick left to play – a trick that might very well win him the game.

The Count shrugged his lips as he threw down the eight of diamonds; it seemed he was out of clubs. "Don't wear them before you've won them," he warned as he leaned on one hand, one finger pressed to his temple and the other resting pensively upon his lips.

His eyes flashed up from the table and suddenly they were on Irina, sticking to her like honey – running slowly from the threads of gold brushed into her brown curls to the pink and saffron satin of her gown, intended to mimic the hazy hues of dawn sunshine.

Irina felt the skin at the nape of her neck prickle under his heavy gaze. A gaze that lingered on even when The Fop took two cards from his hand and arranged them neatly – side by side – on the table.

"Journeys end in lovers meeting," he announced dramatically. "A marriage – between the King and Queen of Diamonds to end the game."

The crowd applauded; melding a marriage between a King and Queen was the whole purpose of the game – and if you managed it, twenty points was the prize if they were in a different suit to trumps, which was precisely what The Fop had done.

"Beat that, Count!"

The banker chuckled as he collected the cards. "Bravo. Twenty points to you sir," he said, "You now _lead_ the game, at fifty-three to forty-one."

Irina watched closely as they moved into the penultimate hand. The Fop had played all his winning cards, with only two throwaways left – the nine of clubs and the seven of spades. Not that it mattered; if he chose to play the nine of clubs then he'd still win the hand, as The Count had previously demonstrated that he was out of clubs himself and therefore destined to lose the game.

And so, The Fop confidently placed the nine of clubs down onto the felt. He shrugged and smirked, "…Do your worst, sir," he taunted.

The Count stared at the table for a moment. He only had two cards left and was guarding them close, holding them face down on the felt beneath his hand – his blunt fingertips tapping them.

Irina held her breath as he suddenly lifted his gaze, a triumphant glint in his eyes and upon his lips.

"…Very well," he said as he finally turned over the two cards to reveal the King and Queen of Clubs, a marriage in the same suit as the leading trump card and therefore the best hand in the game – worth a _slaughtering_ forty points.

The crowd inhaled and – after the initial shock had passed – applauded The Count's ingenious strategy. He'd purposely _pretended_ to be out of clubs and therefore vulnerable, luring The Fop into playing one, _just_ so that he could meld a marriage worth enough points to win the game – stealing it right at the last moment.

Irina didn't join in with the crowd's delighted applause. She stood there staring at the cards, wondering why The Count hadn't declared marriage when The Fop had led with the seven of clubs the round before. It seemed foolish and nonsensical to her to hold onto the winning hand when he could have won a lot earlier in the game. The only explanation that Irina could come up with for such reckless gameplay was that – like a cat playing with a mouse – The Count had wanted to draw the game out, just to toy with his opponent.

Such arrogance both astounded and angered her. Perhaps it was how they played in whatever strange and foreign principality that The Count came from; it certainly wasn't the Viennese way.

The banker grinned and raised his eyebrows, "The Count wins with an astounding eighty-one points," he said as he scooped up all the cards, and then applauded with the rest of the crowd. "Bravo, sir!"

The Count didn't stand and take a bow or even thank the crowd for their applause; instead he remained seated – a triumphant smirk tugging at his lips.

The table shook violently as The Fop stood up and threw down his final card, fleeing in fury. His friends hurried after him, as well as the crowd who – now that the drama had drawn to a close – went off in search of some other entertainment.

The banker gestured to the notes, chips and jewellery cluttering the middle of the table – sparkling in the candlelight. "And to the victor, the spoils."

The Count meticulously gathered up his winnings, folding the bills of note and stuffing them into the inside pocket of his jacket and piling up the stacks of chips. As he finally reached for the diamond necklace, Irina slipped into The Fop's empty chair.

The Count blinked at her.

Irina smiled as she neatly folded her hands on the table in front of her.

"…I think you might be lost," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Dice and Cavagnole are played in the _next_ room."

She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, I don't enjoy games of chance," she replied. "I prefer something a little more daring than plucking numbered balls out of a bag."

The Count's eyes narrowed within his dark mask. "Then may I suggest you try your hand at Carp? They're playing it near the staircase."

Irina was insulted; Carp was practically a game for children, with very little strategy involved in fishing cards from a pile in the middle of the table. "Actually, I prefer Mariage," she replied, smoothing her hands across the felt. She tapped her fingertips as if she were playing the harpsichord. "And may I suggest you stop trying to foist me before I make the assumption that you're frightened of losing to a lady."

The banker laughed, which earned him a sharp glance from The Count.

When there were no further rebuffs, Irina nodded at the banker and tapped the table twice. "Deal me in."

The Count stared across the table at her as the cards were dealt; the blue cards flinging back and forth across the felt. "…And _what_ – may I ask – are we playing for?" he asked, flourishing a hand as he reclined in his chair.

Irina pursed her lips and hummed. "…Well, that depends; what wouldn't you mind parting with?" she jibed with a shrug of her shoulders. "That diamond necklace you have in your pocket would suit me _far_ more than it would suit you, I think."

"My, we do think highly of ourselves, don't we?" The Count drawled as he teased the diamond necklace from his pocket by the clasp as if it were a sparkling worm. It caught the light temptingly as he dropped it in the middle of the table. His eyes licked her throat, "But yes, I imagine it would," he said. "...That and nothing else."

Irina gulped.

"I confess it hasn't been in my possession for very long anyway."

"Oh no?" she replied, leaning her chin on her knuckles.

"No," The Count replied, grinning at her. "I took it from a gentleman earlier this evening during a game of Pharo. The fool found himself without enough chips to meet my wager and so was forced to strip the stones from the neck of his mistress to match it."

Irina chuckled. She raised an eyebrow, "I assume he lost his mistress as well as the necklace," she guessed, just as the banker finished dealing the cards.

The Count's lips curled slowly. He suddenly sat forward and leaned one arm on the table, "No one comes here to win, my lady – not really," he whispered. "They come here to lose – to pay for the pleasure of shedding the cloaks and masks they wear in daylight–"

Irina stared at him as he spoke.

"–To _purge_; to whisper a prayer of confession to the devil from the very darkest depths of their soul." He allowed his words to float between them for a moment before he sat back and shrugged his lips. "That _is_ why you came, isn't it?"

Irina looked away. "You know nothing about me," she sniffed.

"Oh, don't I?"

"No, you don't."

The Count rubbed a hand across the dark hair peppering his jaw. "Where should I begin?" He pointed two fingers at the pink and gold ruffles along her bodice, "Well, for a start that gown you're wearing fits you _far_ too well to be a cast off – the Italian satin and gold embroidery far too fine for anyone other than the daughter of a well-respected noble; fresh meat for the marriage market. And yet… there's just the slightest whisper of tobacco on your breath, and… _something_ in the way you carry yourself. That – coupled with the fact you're even here tonight at all – tells me there's a mutiny stirring beneath the ribs of that corset of yours. I doubt it would require much to coax it out."

Irina's eyes widened.

The Count went on, "Your hands have _certainly_ never toiled – other than perhaps across the keys of a harpsichord – and the way that you're twiddling with those rather rare pearls around your neck – a family heirloom, no doubt – _that_ tells me you're _nervous_, either of your surroundings – after all, what if someone were to recognise you? – or, of the absolute certainty of losing to me."

Irina glowered at The Count, seething at his cutting evaluation; she felt as though he'd carved her open from breast to belly and laid her secrets upon the table between them for everyone to see. She'd never been spoken to in such a way in her entire life. And yet, her body throbbed - she'd never been so aroused.

The banker was waiting patiently. "…Your wager, fraul – ah, forgive me – my lady?"

Even though he was wearing a mask, the Count's sneering look was plain enough for the whole room to see. He raised his eyebrows, daring her to challenge him.

A more sensible woman might have recognised the opportunity to walk away and done so, but Irina refused to be cowed. So – in an attempt to prove some small part of his assumptions wrong – she untied her mother's pearl necklace and dropped it onto the table, right next to the glimmering strand of diamonds.

The Count's lips curled as he picked up his cards. "Your name is worth far more to me than that necklace," he told her. "I need it."

Irina did the same with her own cards, fanning them out neatly. Her dark eyes were sharp as they peered over the cards, "Tonight, you may call me Eos," she replied. "Tomorrow, you'll forget me entirely."

The Count's gaze was slippery. "…Goddess of the Dawn," he replied, nodding as his eyes travelled over the sumptuous gold thread stitched into her bodice and glimmering in her hair. "Well, for once tonight it is darkness who shall overcome the dawn…"

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**Krapfen:** Krapfen are just like **doughnuts**, they're traditionally eaten around the holidays but especially during Karneval._

_**Violet Tuesday: **Shrove Tuesday, Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras - whatever you want to call it - it's the day before the religious fasting season of Lent begins (and Carnival ends) and so usually tends to be marked with a blow-out party and spectacular feast._

_**Glücklicher Karneval: **German, "Happy Carnival!"_

_**Isabella of Parma and Mimi:** Very, very interesting - and something I only read about recently - but it seems that Amalia's older sister (and her mother's favourite) fell in love with her brother's young wife, Isabella of Parma. The two exchanged hundreds and hundreds of letters expressing their mutual love for one another before Isabella tragically died. Mimi was devastated, and all supposedly incriminating letters written by her burned - but Isabella's survive to tell the tale!_

_**Asteria and Eos: **Asteria was the Greek Goddess of Nocturnal Oracles and falling stars, and Eos was the Greek Goddess of the Dawn. I mean, 18th century ladies didn't have a plethora of pop culture and comic book characters to pull their fancy dress costume ideas from - their go to was usually Greek Mythology._

_**Destiny's Spring: **The fountain mentioned at the start of the chapter is the **Donnerbrunnen/****Providentiabrunnen **fountain in the middle of Vienna. The main figure in the middle of the fountain is supposed to symbolise destiny and foresight - while the male figures around her symbolise four major rivers in Austria (and also the four ages and temperaments)._

_**Schwarzenberg Winter Palace:** The Schwarzenbergs had quite a lineage and plenty of palaces across the Habsburg Empire. Their winter palace in Vienna was a bit of a social hub; it hosted plenty of balls and masquerades for Viennese nobles._

_**Der Blaue Karpfen: **The Blue Carp. Totally made up, of course. But gambling was big business across Europe in the 18th century and so gaming houses popped up everywhere._

_**The Fop: **Fop's a bit of pejorative term for a bloke in the eighteenth century who was **very** into his appearance. Bit vain, bit vapid. Absolutely nothing to do with sexuality as a lot of people assume. For example, Lord Percy aka "The Scarlet Pimpernel" plays the fop to ingratiate himself amongst the English nobility and therefore hide his identity as the Scarlet Pimpernel._


	17. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saddle up, it's a long 'un.

_ **Castelul Poenari, December 1769** _

Irina turned suddenly towards the voice, and – as she spun – the heel of her riding boot snagged in the hem of her skirts. The moment between one heartbeat and the next seemed to stretch as she stumbled sideways and felt the air open out beneath her, before she was suddenly pulled back and swirled away from the edge and into Vlad's arms. She held onto a breath as she turned her head and peered nervously over her shoulder – all the way down to the drifts of snow and the jagged rocks of the cliff face and icy lake below – and only when she was satisfied she was safe did she drop her forehead onto Vlad's chest and let it go.

Vlad looked down at her, a stern look in his eyes. "…I would have given you the tour if you'd asked, you know," he told her, raising a dark eyebrow.

Irina looked up, her eyes stumbling over his lips before she met his gaze. Her heart was racing, "You surprised me – _again_," she replied. She suddenly realised how tightly she was holding onto him; her fingers were clawing into his black coat and the thick, firm muscles of his upper arms.

Vlad chuckled as he waltzed her away from the edge, his hands gripping her bodice. "Ah, but you surprised me first," he countered, his blue eyes dancing across her face. "I wasn't expecting guests."

Irina wrinkled her nose, "…Yes, I can see that," she replied, lifting an eyebrow at the missing walls. The castle was a wreck; even if he _had_ been expecting her, it would have been quite the feat to raise it from the rubble in time.

Vlad smirked. "…I confess, you've rather caught me off guard," he told her, his gaze dropping to her lips and to the smooth slope of her neck.

Irina tilted her head and shared his smirk; her body warmed all the way through to her frostbitten toes when he looked at her like that. "What, I didn't give you a chance to hide the bodies?" she teased, her hands sliding down his arms as she carefully stepped away.

Vlad hesitated. "…In a manner of speaking," he replied with a shrug as he followed her.

"Well, good," she replied, throwing her voice over her shoulder. "I'd hate to think you were holding out on me."

Vlad shadowed her; he traced every step she took as if he were hunting her, his eyes trained on her satin hide and the pale flesh hiding beneath it. "…You _do_ realise that you're the first to breach this castle's defenses in over two hundred years," he told her.

"Am I?" Irina replied. She tested the stability of the wall beside her and then leaned back against it, neatly folding her hands neatly behind her back.

"Mm hm."

She narrowed her brown eyes, "Does that make you my prisoner?" she flirted, tilting her head back to look at him as he stopped in front of her – the crumbling, cold stones brushing the back of her head. "I hope so."

Vlad settled one hand on the wall beside her head, while the other reached out and cupped her face – his thumb brushing over her lips and the smattering of freckles across her cheek before tracing the line of her jaw.

Irina shivered.

"...I'm at your mercy, iubita mea," he whispered as his hand descended into the waterfall of brown curls falling over her shoulder.

She considered swatting his hand away but instead found herself frozen; she felt her whole scalp bristle at his touch. "…Perhaps I'll torture you then," she said, tilting her face upwards like a flower craning its petals towards the sun. "Gut you of your inner most secrets."

Vlad's thumb moved his hand onto her neck, to the spot where her pulse throbbed; he traced the pad of his thumb over it, feeling it vibrate beneath the skin with every beat. He groaned a little, his dark eyes pulling together as he whispered, "Your very presence is torture enough, Irina."

Irina battled the smile that forced its way across her lips.

It was madness; she barely knew him and the things she _did_ know came with a clear and obvious warning, and yet... And _yet_! That heavy, whispering voice of his that constantly teased and challenged her, and the way the skin around his eyes creased when he smiled, and – _God_ – just the way he looked at her; it was as if he could see not only right though all those layers of bone and satin, but right through her skin too. Why did she always feel utterly naked in his presence? It was infuriating.

Vlad stooped a little, his lips hovering over hers. The flame leaning towards the moth.

Would it be _that_ terrible if she singed her wings a little? Would it?

She silenced the warning bell chiming out in her mind – screaming at her not to be so reckless – and then closed her eyes, lifted her chin, held her breath and waited to feel his lips against hers. And she thought she did – for a brief, maddening moment – before a sudden breeze gusted across her face and she heard a man yell on the other side of the tower.

Irina's eyes flew open to see Vlad gripping poor Ferenc by the neck and holding him threateningly over the crumbling edge of the tower.

Vlad snarled at him, "Who are you? You followed her here – _why_?" he demanded, a savage look in his eyes.

Ferenc gasped and gulped for air; his amber eyes full of terror as he scratched and scrambled and attempted to peel Vlad's fingers from his throat. He gulped and shook his head – kicking his boots and sending a small shower of stones skittering over the edge.

Vlad tightened his grip. His fingers were biting into Ferenc's throat. "Are there more of you? How many? _Tell me_!"

Irina pushed away from the wall. She hurried over and tugged on Vlad's arm, "Vlad, _stop_! What are you _talking_ about?" she yelled, beating a fist between his broad shoulders when he wouldn't listen.

Vlad frowned over his shoulder. "Who is this man?" he demanded.

"He's my _escort_ – he brought me here!" Irina shouted. "Let _go_ of him!"

Vlad growled as he grabbed Ferenc by the jacket and then shoved him away from the edge.

Ferenc slid lid to the ground; he scuttled on his knees towards the nearest wall like a frightened spider – coughing and wheezing as he clutched his neck.

Irina rushed to check on him, cupping his face and sweeping her hand through his crop of hair. "Are you alright?" she asked.

Ferenc gazed up at her for a moment, then puffed his chest and nodded firmly. "I'm fine, Ducesa," he grunted. "...Nothing I can't handle."

Irina turned on Vlad. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" she snapped, stomping over to him. She shoved him, "You could have killed him! He's _Fiebe's_ brother, I _trust_ him. And she trusts me!"

Vlad frowned, avoiding her angry gaze as he peered over the edge and into the darkness below. "…I'm sorry," he replied. "...As I said, I wasn't expecting guests."

Irina tugged at his shoulder, forcing him to look at her and explain. "Who _were_ you expecting?" she demanded. "Assassins?"

She'd meant it almost as a joke, because, who even treated _strangers_ to such a rude welcome? But then, he turned and faced her with a jaded look in his eyes – wild and weary with the world – and said, "…Well, it wouldn't be the first time."

* * *

As darkness shrouded Poenari, Vlad showed Irina into its empty cellar and then – beneath it – into the hidden subterranean levels of the castle's old fortifications. Burrowed deep into the clifftop were a series of vaulted, stone rooms – like a crypt – filled with a library of books, artwork and gilded furniture, as well as a dusty armory full of weaponry which looked as if it hadn't seen a battle in at least two centuries. There were rolled Persian rugs and coffee sets, sculptures that had survived the fall of the Roman Empire, a starkly modern-looking harpsichord, as well as locked coffers and chests full of mystery – and perhaps, gold; who knew?

"...So, this is home – or at least it will be until I'm able to restore the rest of the castle. My plans are rather adventurous to say the least," Vlad explained as he unlocked the gate leading into one of the rooms with a heavy, rusting iron key. He stepped aside and smiled as he gestured for her to enter, "Ladies first."

Irina looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to trick me and lock me away with the paintings, are you?" she joked as she picked up her skirts and stepped inside.

Vlad shrugged his lips. "Well, that would be fitting… to stash you away with all the other works of art I'm hoping to someday pin up against a wall."

It took her moment, but once she realised what he'd meant Irina spun and swatted his shoulder. "Behave," she warned, unable to hide her smirk.

Vlad crumpled slightly and grinned. "Oh, I don't think either of us want that."

Still shaken by the incident in the tower, Ferenc had chosen _not_ to take the tour and had instead opted to stay in the courtyard and watch the horses – and nurse his flask of brandy. And so, Irina was alone, and she couldn't help flinching when Vlad shut the gate behind them with a clang. He moved to lock it but seemed to change his mind at the last minute and just pocketed the key instead.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked. "Most of this will furnish upstairs once the castle is restored. It'll be a palace to be envied from within and a fortress - a presence to be feared - from without."

Irina nodded as she untied her cloak and flopped it over the back of a chair. "I'm sure."

Vlad fiddled with the cuffs of his coat. "But this will do for now."

Irina took a deep breath – inhaling the smell of dust and decay. "It's very… _cosy_," she replied, running her fingers over the cold creases and cracks in the walls. "…No windows though," she added with a slight sigh. "That's a shame; I imagine sunrises here are really quite something."

Vlad turned and nodded his head. He smiled, "They are. Although, I admit that it's been a long time since I've seen one of them... a long time since I've seen the dawn–"

"Oh? You're not an early riser?" Irina asked, narrowing her brown eyes.

His lips quirked. "...No," he replied. "And in any case, these rooms weren't designed to offer views of the east, but rather to provide protection from it."

Irina wrinkled her nose and hummed in amusement. "Protection from the sunrise?"

Vlad raised a dark eyebrow, "Protection from the Turks, iubita mea."

"Ah."

"You see, these rooms that we're standing in were locked away until they were needed – whether that was during an attack, or a siege, or during an enemy occupation," Vlad explained as he strolled across to the racks of weaponry and scooped up a curved sword – a Turkish kilij – by its ornate, golden pommel. He rolled his wrist, neatly slicing the blade through the air and demonstrating his dexterity with it. The blade flashed in the candlelight.

Irina was entranced; the sight of him handling a sword so skillfully was disarming. As she stepped alongside him and then picked up a small rondel dagger, the ivory hilt intricately carved into the shape of a horse's head. She nodded at their surroundings, "It's quite the hideaway," she remarked.

"…There's even a secret passageway leading north from here into the foothills and forests near Hermannstadt," Vlad added, watching as she handled the dagger – as she gently turned it over in her hands and brushed her fingers precariously along the blade. The weapons were old but were still capable of drawing blood, and he held his breath as her thumb dragged from hilt to tip.

"Ah. So _that's_ how you came to be in the forest that day," Irina realised, removing her hand from the blade. "And-"

Vlad relaxed.

"-I suppose, how you travel to and from Hermannstadt without having to deal with that absolutely _terrible_ excuse for a road. You could have warned me, you know!" she complained, suddenly remembering that she'd have to make the journey back at some point - _and_ in the dark.

Vlad held her gaze. "But then you might not have come."

Irina looked around, searching for some secret doorway or hatch. "...Well, where is it? Tell me."

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?" he purred as he carefully slid the kilij back onto the rack.

Irina raised both her eyebrows _and_ the dagger, holding the tip of the blade under his chin - among the cropped dark hairs shadowing it. "You don't trust me?"

Vlad sent her a scolding look. "I _rarely_ place my trust in others, Irina," he replied simply as he lifted two fingers and used them to gently nudge the blade away from his throat.

"But I thought you were my prisoner," she teased. "And a soldier like you should know that after capture comes interrogation."

"Soldier?"

Irina pointed to the rack with the dagger. "Oh please," she said. "All these weapons, the way you handled that blade? I recognise a soldier when I see one; my father was one once."

Vlad looked away and frowned.

"So come on soldier," she taunted, raising the dagger again. "I want to know _everything_."

He sighed, unwilling to play. "I'd rather you didn't, Irina," he replied, adding as an afterthought, "It's nothing personal."

But it _did_ feel personal, and Irina frowned slightly as she turned the dagger over in her hand and gave it back to him with an impatient sigh. "Why?"

Vlad put the dagger away, then leaned heavily against the rack. "Because."

"That's not answer."

"Because I take my privacy very seriously."

"…Is that why you live here? _Alone_; in the depths of a crumbling, abandoned castle?" Irina huffed as she turned away and gestured to the solitude and silence of their surroundings – with only the slight crackle of the many candles lighting the room for company.

Vlad took a breath, then nodded. "Yes."

"But, without even a single servant?"

He chuckled. "If you can imagine."

"You jest, but I mean, who tends to your clothes, your linens?" Irina asked, gesturing to his coat, his immaculately polished boots. "Who sweeps the fireplace and replenishes all these candles when they burn out?"

"I do."

Irina was amazed.

Vlad shrugged his lips. "I've never been reliant on others – not for a very long time, anyway," he told her.

Irina scoffed, she couldn't fathom it; what use was there in having a great big castle if you wouldn't share it with anyone? "But," she began, shaking her head, "aren't you terribly lonely?"

"Yes," he admitted without missing a beat. "I don't enjoy solitude, but I also don't see the advantage in forming attachments that will never – that _can_ _never_ last."

Irina groaned. "I'm not suggesting you form a life-long attachment, Vlad," she said, "I just don't see why you haven't hired anyone to help you manage this place... I mean, to close yourself off like this, it's like you're..."

Vlad hesitated; he glanced down at his boots.

She took a sudden step closer to him, searching his blue eyes. "You're frightened."

Vlad's brow furrowed slightly. He raised his chin like a shield; it was almost as if he'd suddenly snatched up one of the real and very dusty old shields lying on the rack beside him and hoisted it into the space in front of him - the space Irina was slowly invading.

Her lips curled slowly. She nodded, "Yes. That's it, isn't it? That's why you lock yourself away here and only venture into town to indulge in some ridiculous semblance of human contact - behind closed doors or behind a mask. You have some dark secret that you're too afraid to share with the world," she purred – tilting her head as she gazed up at him. "…And so, you hide yourself away - _here_ – and refuse to invite others in because you fear they'll never accept it – they'll never accept _you_."

Vlad locked his blue eyes on hers. His dark brows furrowed slightly.

"You see," she whispered. "I have keen senses too."

"And yet, I invited _you_ here," he challenged, peering down his nose at her.

"Yes, you did. And here I am - but why? If I'm only to be a passing acquaintance - or an attachment that can never last," she accused as she swirled away from him and strolled over to the harpsichord in the corner. It had been placed beside to a stone archway leading through into a room being used as a bedchamber – complete with a vast mahogany bed draped in an opulent red counterpane. She lifted the lid and brushed her fingers over the wooden keys – descending the octaves like stairs. She slid onto the stool and planted her hands – her fingertips finding their way to the starting position of an old Scarlatti Sonata she liked to play. "…Am I to suppose that I'm the exception to your rule?"

Vlad stared - finding the sight of her making herself at home rather disarming. "…Perhaps I simply have a weakness for beautiful women."

"Or just women in general," Irina practically snapped as she began to play – mournful minor scales and trills echoing in the stone chamber.

Vlad looked down and chuckled. "Ah yes," he said. He strolled across the room to join her, "Léonie did tell me she suffered an unpleasant encounter with the Duchess of Brunswick."

Irina sneered at him from over the lid. _Léonie_. Such a pretty name. "You mean it has a name?"

"You _know_ she does, you infuriating harpy," he growled.

Irina smirked slightly as she continued to play - gluing her eyes to the keys.

"_She_ told me that the Duchess threatened her with a pistol and then raised her skirts in the middle of the town square," he said, tutting as he leaned his arm on the edge of the harpsichord and watched the mechanism – chasing the wooden jacks rising and falling like waves. "She _said_ that she'd never encountered such a woman in her life - a statement I wholeheartedly agreed with."

Irina ignored him as she carried on punching her fingers into the keys; rattling furiously through the sonata at twice the tempo she usually went. Her old tutor would have rapped her knuckles.

Vlad stooped in an attempt to catch her gaze. "…She _said_, she was offered diamonds worth twelve thousand gulden. Twelve thousand gulden for the truth. The truth about me."

There was a dissonant shriek as Irina's middle finger slipped and fudged an arpeggio. She huffed as she removed her hands, folded them neatly in her lap and then looked up at Vlad.

He instantly slipped into the empty stool-space beside her – facing away from the keys, facing _her_. He raised his dark eyebrows, "But then… I think you already know it, don't you, Duchess?"

Irina looked at him, her brown eyes searching his face. "Your dark secret?" she replied. She inhaled sharply, then nodded as she breathed out, "Yes, I think I do."

"And still you came?"

"…It would appear so," she replied.

Vlad reached out and cupped her neck, and when she didn't flinch, he smoothed his thumb down from her chin to the hollow at the base of her throat.

Irina shuddered and closed her eyes, leaning into his hand like an affectionate cat. "I _tried_ not to," she admitted. "But I couldn't seem to help myself."

"You've heard the stories, Irina," he said, his eyes joining her freckles. "You're not afraid that I lured you here with the intention of imprisoning you and then feasting upon you - _devouring_ you, body and soul?"

Irina placed her hand over his, wrapping her fingers around the thick digits. "…Perhaps that's _exactly_ why I came," she whispered as she turned her head slightly and brushed her lips against the side of his hand. "Perhaps that's _exactly_ what I want."

Vlad all but growled. "And what of your precious reputation?"

A fearful flicker flashed in her eyes. "Ferenc is the only one who knows I'm here," she replied, trying to convince herself. She took a steeling breath, "No one will have to know."

Vlad leaned in closer, teasing his lips in front of hers, "Irina-"

She pressed her fingertips to his lips, halting his advance. "_But_," she said, "before we proceed, you should know, I _refuse_ to play second fiddle to any woman. _Any_ woman. Especially women called," she grit her teeth, "_Léonie_."

She couldn't see Vlad's lips, but she could tell he was amused; she felt his lips pull beneath her fingertips and noticed how the skin around his blue eyes wrinkled.

"…And, secondly… I came here because I want to know you. I want the truth. I demand it. _All_ of it. However insane or impossible it might sound; I want to hear it from _you -_ and only you," she told him, dropping her hand. She waved it, "Because I've lied for you and protected you countless times already, kept you hidden - God only knows why - but, I think it's time I knew exactly what it is that I'm protecting. You owe me that much. I mean I don't even know your family name! I've enough on my plate as it is - what with the wretched council on my back and my father falling gravely ill-"

Vlad snatched up her hand and kissed it. "...Irina-"

"Tell me the truth, Vlad," she urged. "The night of the attack - the wound in your shoulder. I've looked at your blood under my microscope... it's not normal. And I've tried to come up with a logical explanation for it but... I've come to the conclusion that I'm not sure there is one."

He looked at her for a long moment. He suddenly remembered what she'd once told him about scientists, how they needed to see things to believe their existence - and so he drew his lips back over his teeth like a snarling dog and popped his fangs.

Irina flinched. Her eyes widened; she glared at his pointed canines for what felt like a long time, before her eyes finally met his. "Then it is true."

"Now do you believe it?" he said, as he slowly drew them back in.

Irina swallowed and nodded. "…You _are_ a Vampire."

"...I am," he replied, waiting for her to react fully. "And now you have the truth."

She snorted, "Some of it."

Vlad groaned.

"Well, I'm sorry; it answers a lot of questions, yes," she explained with a slight chuckle, "but it raises a lot more."

"...Oh good," he tutted, bracing himself for an interrogation.

She sighed at him, "Well what were you expecting? Were you hoping I'd scream or swoon?"

Vlad shrugged his lips. "Actually, _yes_."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not the swooning type," Irina replied with a shrug. "And come to think of it, I'm not the screaming type either-"

"We shall soon see about that," he muttered.

"-Unfortunately for you, I'm the full of annoying questions type. _So_." Irina's brown eyes waltzed over his face. "How old are you?"

Vlad shrugged his lips. "Three hundred and forty."

She choked on a breath. She almost laughed, "That's insane," she said, counting back the centuries and trying to place the man sitting beside her in time.

"It's true," he replied, risking a smile.

Irina reached out and touched his face, smoothing her fingertips over the fine lines around his eyes scientifically. There were some obvious signs of aging, like the shallow wrinkles across his forehead and around his eyes, and the occasional grey hair sprouting amongst the black ones around his temples - none of them were uncommon in a man approaching forty. A approaching three hundred and forty, though? _That_ was an entirely different kettle of fish.

It was as if he was frozen in time. "…But you look so–"

Vlad raised one of his heavy, dark eyebrows at her, "I advise you to choose your next words _very_ carefully, Duchess."

"–You look so…_ Well_," she said, landing on the only suitable word that sprung to mind. She sat on it for a moment, then shrugged - her fingers slipping from his face and dropping into her lap. "You look well. Considering."

Vlad looked off to the side. He'd never felt so old. "Thank you."

When she could see he was disappointed, Irina reached out and cupped his face – gently turning it back towards her. She brushed her thumb through the short hairs along his chin and smiled at him, "Du bist eine schöne leiche," she told him. "You _know_ I find you handsome. You really don't need me to tell you that."

Vlad's smirk was slow as he took her wrist and pulled her closer, guiding her arm over his shoulder and pulling her body to his. "True; I'd much rather you showed me," he drawled as his hand settled on her bodice, smoothing the fine satin over her ribs with his thumb.

Irina grinned as she wrapped her arm around his neck, finally diving her fingers into those black waves curling at the nape of his neck. They were just as soft and as thick as she'd imagined. She tilted her head and frowned suddenly, "So, when you told me that you'd once dined with the King of England, you were actually talking about–"

"Charles Stuart… the elder," Vlad replied with a nod, naming a monarch who'd been dead for almost a hundred years. He pulled a face, "Such a shame he ended up losing his head."

"Fascinating. And… the ball at Versailles?" Irina asked.

Vlad cast his mind back, "A masquerade to celebrate the wedding of the dauphin to some… some Spanish infanta – I forget her name," he said, brushing the distant memory aside with one hand. He smiled as - upon its return - it found its way into Irina's tail of brown curls, "Of course, everyone's eyes were on Madame Pompadour that night – _especially_ those of the king," he said as his fingers played with the tapered ends, his knuckles brushing the flounces across her bodice.

Irina was breathless; every touch somehow sinking though the layers of bone and satin right through to her skin. She wanted to shed every single infuriating layer and feel those hands on her bare skin. She bit her lip at the thought. "…And Vienna?" she pressed on, fascinated. "I suppose you were there to hear the Pummerin ring out when the Empress was crowned. Or born, perhaps?"

Vlad eyed her fondly. "No… it was more recent than that," he told her as he swept her hair over her shoulder, baring the pale column of her neck, as well as the swell of her rising and falling chest.

Irina's muddy brown eyes sunk to his lips as she felt his gaze wash over her uncovered skin. She shivered, "And… what about–"

"Irina," Vlad interrupted with a heavy voice.

She blinked up at him. His eyes were hovering so close to her own that she could see the dark flecks floating in each steely blue iris. "...What?"

"Stop talking," he commanded softly as his hand moved into her hair.

And then he silenced her with a kiss.

Irina sat rigid on the harpsichord stool – every muscle and tendon in her body tightening – as his lips brushed purposefully against her own in a slow and lingering kiss. She inhaled sharply through her nose, breathing him in - the musk of his skin, his hair and his slightly fusty clothes. He filled her senses completely for an all too brief moment, and then – _maddeningly_ – he broke away. And when she opened her eyes she found his gaze wildly searching hers – his blue eyes frantic, fevered_._

"What - what is it?" she whispered, touching his face.

He frowned as he pressed his forehead to hers, his lips pulling into a tight line. "…I'm waiting for you to run away," he admitted, brushing his nose against hers.

"…Then don't give me a reason to," she purred as she pulled him down to her and deepened the kiss.

It had been years since her last kiss – _years_ since that clinch in that dark cloister – and she found that once she'd finally given in, it was kind of difficult to stop. Not that she wanted to, of course; once Vlad's hand dropped to the small of her back – tangling in the laces of her bodice – and he drew her tightly into his embrace, she couldn't imagine wanting to be anywhere else. He kissed her thoroughly, fluently – as if he'd done so before – and when she tilted her head back and gulped for air, his lips found her jaw, her throat, her collarbone - hungrily grazing on any flesh he found.

Irina bent to his touch like a beech tree in a gale - arching and swaying - content to yield as he leaned over her. When his lips found their way onto her chest, kissing and licking their way over her breasts she rocked backwards. And when she fumbled a hand behind to steady herself, the palm of it accidentally slapped the harpsichord keys – a jarring chord sounding out.

Irina sniggered as Vlad dug his fingers into the front of her bodice and then roughly pulled her back to him. "…Uh, I still have questions, you know," she insisted as he nuzzled the slope of her shoulder - tugging the silk downwards to bare more of it.

"…I'm sure you do," he rasped.

She smirked as he began kissing a path up her neck and towards her lips.

"…Hundreds, no doubt."

"_Yes_… and I'm going to get through every single one of them – so don't think you can distract me so easily," Irina told him when his eyes reached hers.

Vlad kissed her – once, twice – and then nipped at her lower lip. When she whimpered, he grinned, "Oh, I think I can."

Irina kissed him back, surging upwards to meet his waiting lips. She couldn't believe she'd denied herself this for so long! She was clearly mad. "You did say that you were my prisoner."

"And I am," he replied, his hand falling and resting heavily on her breast. His thumb brushed over the lace fringing her neckline, "But I never said I was going to be a well-behaved one."

She raised an eyebrow. "…Can you _really_ only go out at night?"

"Mm hm," Vlad murmured against her lips. His fingers tangled in the strings of her bodice - plucking and tugging as he tried to loosen them.

Irina pulled back slightly, "But... don't you miss the sunlight?" she asked, pitying him when she thought about the beautiful sunrise she'd seen that very morning – hazy pink hues shining through the freezing mist that sagged over the rooftops and steeples. "...Sunrises, sunsets?"

"I have the moonlight," he replied, shrugging his lips before planting a kiss just below her ear.

Irina closed her eyes and tried hard to concentrate as she felt her bodice become loose. She breathed deeply and tried to ignore the warm and insistent ache between her thighs. Doing just that was becomingly increasingly more difficult; the ache seemed to intensify with every touch. "And… what about holy water, the bible… crucifixes?" she listed, recalling what she'd read in Magia Posthuma.

Vlad practically rolled his eyes. They dropped onto the pale skin of her chest as he gently tugged at the neckline of her gown, peering down into it. "Water, wood pulp and crafted sticks of metal?" he replied distractedly as his hand dove into her stays and cupped her breast. "About as deadly as they sound."

Irina sighed heavily when his thumb swiped across her nipple.

He teased his lips in front of hers. "Except silver," he whispered. "Silver is… intolerable."

"...I think I know the feeling," she muttered, raising an eyebrow at him.

Vlad chuckled slightly, before he seized her lips again.

"…So, you _can_ feel pain?"

"Of course."

"But you can heal quickly from it – from everything?" she challenged.

Vlad sighed impatiently. He pulled away and extricated his hand from her bodice. "...Almost everything," he replied. "...Drinking blood tends to speed up the healing process. The wound in my shoulder - it healed as quickly as it did because I'd fed just before stumbling into you."

Irina shifted in her seat, turning her body away from him and folding her arms. She tutted, "Ah. From Léonie, I suppose."

Vlad grinned; he quite enjoyed her jealously. He reached for her, sweeping the threads of brown hair out of her face, "Sustenance only, iubita mea," he promised her.

But Irina wasn't so easily pacified. "_Sustenance_?" she practically groaned. "Well, _I_ eat porridge for so called sustenance every morning, Vlad, but surprisingly, I manage not to fuck the bowl between spoonfuls."

He laughed loudly, throwing his head back.

Irina poked his ribs. "A fair point, I think you'll agree."

He snatched her wrist and pulled her over his lap. "I do," he replied, stooping to kiss her.

Irina raised her eyebrows. "So?" she whispered. "What's the difference?"

He sighed at her, pondering the question for a moment before answering. "The flavour of blood varies from human to human, from place to place and - somehow - the taste of it can even be... _situational_. For example, the blood of a young, English Duke with an appetite for mutton fed upon while enjoying the opera will have an entirely different taste to the same man after he's just found out his father has died, or - let's say - a miserable and elderly peasant woman from Hungary who has spent most of her life pickled on Pálinka."

"Fascinating..." Irina replied, considering the science of it. "So there's no magic to it, then. It's just like wine, I suppose... I mean, aside from the different varieties of grape, there are so many other factors at play when it comes to making a good bottle."

Vlad practically rolled his eyes. "If you want be trite about it."

Irina sat up, her long tail of curls swinging down over her shoulder. She quirked her eyebrows, "So... is there a particular _vintage_ that you're more partial to than others?"

He paused, then looked down and scoffed at his own hesitation.

"Come on, tell me," Irina purred.

He smiled as he reached out and kissed her softly. "...Well-fed, well-cultured, and..." He stopped. "_Well_..."

"Well _what_?"

Vlad eyes joined her freckles. "...Well-pleasured."

Irina snorted at him. "You're not serious."

He held his hands up, "It affects the taste - _substantially_ \- I've no idea why," he told her. "_You're_ the scientist, perhaps you can explain it."

She shrugged and shook her head. "...I can't. Though I'm sure there's a reason for it and that someone will be smart enough to work it out someday," she said. Then she realised, "So you don't _love _Léonie, then, you just love how she tastes when she-"

Vlad shrugged his lips, "Sustenance only, as I said."

"So then why does she think you're going to make her a vampire?" Irina asked. "She's convinced of it."

Vlad's hand settled heavily on her thigh. He looked down and breathed through his nose. He could see he was going to have to tell her everything; he'd opened himself up to her and now she was flooding in like the tide.

Irina raised her eyebrows at him. "...Well?" she persevered. "Are you?"

"Of course not," he replied. "The very idea of it is-"

"But you promised her that you would. Didn't you?" Irina assumed. "So she'd be bound to you to keep your secret, I suppose."

Vlad nodded. "Yes."

Irina scoffed and sent him a look. She didn't care about the girl, but still, "That's cruel, Vlad. To string her along and use her for-"

Vlad took a breath. "Making her what I am would be far more cruel, Irina."

"...Oh I don't know," she replied, "I can certainly see why she wants it - wants _you_. I mean, to have that kind of power… and _time_… to never get old, to live forever–"

Vlad frowned. "To live _forever_," he said, repeating her words in a much heavier voice. "I don't think you quite understand the weight of that word, Irina. It's barely a measurement of time - it's impossibly infinite."

"So?"

"_So_, consider it. _Really_ consider what that means," he said.

Irina tried to, but came up empty. She shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Living forever means leaving beyond a single lifetime. Beyond multiple lifetimes. It means watching everyone you care about grow old and die - every single one of them until you're the only one left," he explained. "Until you're completely alone. _Forever_."

A pained look painted Irina's features as realisation set in. "Oh."

Vlad looked at her and nodded. "_Oh_. Yes, Oh."

Irina tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "I hadn't really thought about that," she mumbled. _Still, surely there were benefits_. "But still-"

"I know what you're thinking - you're thinking that there must be benefits. Well, obviously. After those first hundred years or so limp by while you _try_ to forget everyone you ever cared about - try to swallow the grief for your former existence... And then one day, all that grief and sadness simply dries up, and then you attempt to replace that emptiness at death's expense - feasting and fucking and losing whatever last shred of humanity happens to have lingered on," Vlad went on, throwing his hand around as he spoke. He locked eyes with her, "But then? Do you know what happens?"

Irina shook her head. "No."

"It all becomes boring," he told her. "_Everything_ becomes boring – because you've seen it all before, at least a hundred times, if not a thousand. Just _breathing_ becomes boring. Faces, people - they all mould into one. And never mind the ones that do happen to pique your interest; you can't form normal relationships anymore. Forget about that, because - in case you haven't noticed - people don't tend to _like_ vampires. You may not have screamed or swooned, but most do. And even if by some miracle they didn't and you came to care for one another, would you really want to sit around and watch them grow old and rot and die? And then start the whole process all over again. And again."

Irina suddenly felt sorry, and - honestly - a little deflated.

"Eventually you come to realise that _alone_ is the only option."

She frowned. "I don't believe that," she replied, pulling her gown up over her shoulder.

Vlad took her hand in his, brushing his thumb across the knuckles and absently turning the rings sitting there.

Irina looked at him as he brought her hand to his lips. "It doesn't have to be that way, surely," she said. "You should be sharing this incredible power with the world - with those who'd be worthy of it."

"I couldn't do it," he told her.

"You mean, you've _never_ created another of your kind?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Never intentionally."

She thought about her father. "... Not even to save their life?"

He planted a soft kiss to her knuckles. "By damning them instead? No."

Irina puzzled. "But... But, surely _sharing_ such an existence with someone else would make it more tolerable? _Enjoyable_ even? You could rule the world together."

"I'd have to find someone I'd be willing to live forever with first," he told her. "Rather difficult when you live a secluded life - and besides, I think the amount of people any one person could stomach spending an eternity with are few and far between."

She almost laughed - almost. "I suppose that's true," she replied; she could count on one hand how many people she'd consider living forever with, and even then, she wasn't sure. "Still, I think you're mad to hide away like this... I mean I understand, I _do_, or at least I'm _trying_ to - but..." She looked at him seriously, "You could do so much."

He stared at her.

"So, who created _you_? Were they really that cruel?" Irina asked.

Vlad buckled under her soft, inquisitive gaze. He looked away for a moment, and then squeezed her hand as he helped her onto her feet. "Come with me," he whispered. "...There's something I want to show you."

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**Turkish Kilij: **A type of curved long sword used by soldiers of the Ottoman Empire. If you break down the word it basically means, "To Kill"._

_**Scarlatti: Giuseppe Domenico Scarlatti **was a baroque composer who composed 555 keyboard sonatas. If you're a classically trained pianist then you're almost certain to have come across him. :-)_

_**The Pummerin:** The large bell in the tower of the main cathedral in Vienna - it used to ring out to mark special occasions like new Emperors and Empresses, royal births and weddings etc._

_ **"Du bist eine schöne leiche": "You're a lovely corpse."** _


	18. Eighteen

"Have you ever heard of the Solomonărie – the _Scholomance_?" Vlad asked as he brought down a heavy, dusty tome from a shelf so full of books that it was sagging in the middle. "Some call it, The School of the Dragon."

Irina looked sheepish. She wrinkled her nose, "No," she replied, smiling awkwardly. "I'm sorry; I'm afraid my Transylvanian History is about as dusty as that book."

Vlad chuckled as brought the book over to the table and then dropped it down in front of her. The sheen of dust covering it erupted into the air in a cloud as it hit the table.

Irina spluttered and wafted it away with her hand.

"Sorry," Vlad said as he leaned over her – planting one hand on the table and using the over to open the old book. He planted a kiss on her bare shoulder, "I haven't cracked the spine of this particular book in quite a while," he whispered, his lips moving below her ear.

Irina shuddered and sighed. She wanted to feel those lips against every pore, "I can tell."

Vlad peered down at the book from over her shoulder. He brushed his hand over the cover, sweeping away the dust to reveal an embossed title that had once been gold.

"…Țara Dincolo de Pădure: Poveștile Transilvaniei," Irina muttered – her tongue tripping over the words. She attempted to translate, "The… something about a forest?"

"The Land Beyond the Forest," he translated with a soft smile, "The stories of Transylvania."

It was a children's book, Irina realised; a book full of fables and tales for children – although it was so old that the child who it had once belonged must have been long dead by now. "Are you about to tell me a bedtime story?" she teased.

Vlad sent her a heated look as he opened the cover, "A long time ago, there were whispers of a school hidden away in the mountains not far from here – a school dedicated to the study of black magic and alchemy," he told her, his face hovering in the crook of her neck. "It's _said_ that the devil himself would handpick the students who studied there – and that _he_ was their tutor. He'd teach them his secret powers – teach them how to command the weather, how to speak to animals and even how to evade death – among other things. There's even a story about the students riding a flying dragon that was hidden under a mountain lake. However, out of all the students, he would only apprentice – only _claim_ – one of them. _One_ student who he'd allow to graduate the school and take his knowledge and power out into the world."

Irina watched as Vlad turned the yellowing pages, her eyes flicking over the faded and blotched medieval handwriting and drawings. Beautifully inked drop capitals of snakes and dragons and skeletons and sword-wielding heroes. There were some words that she recognised – some stories that Fiebe had told her as she sat by fire sewing, mimicking her own mother.

Vlad turned back to the inside cover and smoothed his hand over a page where a family tree had been almost crudely mapped out. "This book – this very castle – belonged to that student," he said as he brushed his fingers over a name – a child's signature scratched into the page – right at the bottom of the tree. "And still does."

Irina sat forward. "…Vladislaus Drăculea," she read, tracing the letters with her fingertips as she spoke. She slowly turned her head and met Vlad's hard gaze, "_Dracula_?"

He looked at her for a moment – his dark brow furrowed as his blue eyes danced across her features. He watched her expression shift from surprise to disbelief to fear to utter bewilderment. "…Yes."

She narrowed her eyes. "…_The_ Dracula?"

Vlad's lips curled. "…You asked what my family name was."

Irina released a breath. She did a brief calculation in her head; she counted three hundred and forty years back and ended up in a world she'd only heard about in history books. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear, "You mean… _you're_–"

He nodded. "I am he."

Irina slouched back in her chair and gazed at the signature in the book – stared right through it. The infamous Vlad Tepes. The man she'd heard and read so many stories of as a child. Vladislaus Drăculea. _Dracula_. The man; the so-called monster. And he was standing right beside her.

Vlad stooped to catch her gaze. "Irina?"

She looked at him – looked into his blue eyes and soft, smiling face – and blinked. "I'm… _digesting_," she told him. She glanced down at the book and then back, "It's uh… all a little difficult to swallow, that's all."

He looked concerned.

She cleared her throat. "…Uh, you wouldn't happen to have any wine or... _anything_ stashed in between all the uh… weaponry, would you?"

Vlad drummed the table. "…One moment," he said as he strolled across the room towards a rack draped in a dust sheet. He ripped it away to reveal a cache of dusty bottles.

Irina watched – confused – as he scanned the bottles then scooped one up, the sound of the liquid sloshing tunefully inside. She raised an eyebrow, "I thought you said that wine disagreed with you?"

"It does," he told her as he uncorked the bottle and then brought it over to the table. He plonked it down in front of her. He grinned, "This is brandy. Which I prefer."

Irina raised an eyebrow at him as she wrapped her fingers around the bottle and dragged it towards her.

Vlad watched as she lifted the bottle and took a hefty sip. "I still enjoy a glass now and then, although the effects are somewhat muted," he told her. "Coffee is another preferred drink of mine – an echo from the old days. Although admittedly, good coffee is rather hard to come by around here."

Irina snorted slightly. Dracula drinks coffee, who knew? They certainly failed to mention _that_ in the history books. Although, "I suppose the Turks brought it with them when they invaded, didn't they?"

Vlad nodded and then returned his gaze to the book. He frowned, "I spent most of my life waging war with those who dared to invade my kingdom – my _home_. But yes, the Turks especially. For my faith, for my honour and for the crown I massacred and drove them out – and my reward for it? The Hungarian King – a feckless and foolish man – stripped me of my throne, put my traitorous brother in my place and then had me locked away. He forged letters – in sloppy Latin, I might add – claiming I'd allied with the Turks to overthrow him." He shook his head, "Fourteen years, I was held captive. _Fourteen_ years."

Irina frowned.

He almost laughed. "Seems barely a moment _now_, but at the time… Well, it was like an eternity," he explained.

She sent him a sympathetic look, then took another swig of brandy.

"Anyway, I became quite desperate – nearly lost my damn mind," Vlad went on. "And then one day, I did. I turned my back on everything I believed in and made a pact with the devil…"

Irina's gaze drifted to Vlad's hand and he'd slowly balled it into a tight fist as he spoke.

"I pleaded with him. Told him that I'd do anything – _anything_ – that I'd give my soul if he would help me break free and defeat my enemies, defeat anyone – _anyone_ \- who stood between me and my throne. And he did; I got it all back – for a time – until the Turks returned and I lost everything. My crown, my people… My wife - who threw herself from the tower of this castle rather than be taken by them," he explained, shaking his head. "And that's when the devil came to collect."

When Irina saw how his hand was clenching, she reached out and touched it. Smoothing her fingers over his cold knuckles until they relaxed.

Vlad looked at her. "He took me to the mountains, and that's when he schooled me and then cursed me with this… this _existence_," he told her, snarling.

Irina sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Vlad closed the book with a thud. "I turned my back on Transylvania for a time and chose to wander instead, but in the end the pull of the mountains and of my old life – and my desire - my _need_ \- for revenge was just too strong." He scoffed, "Old wounds fester deep – even for the undead, I'm afraid."

Irina could see the pain etched into his features. She reached up and touched his face, forcing him to look at her. To her own surprise, she understood the pain. "I understand," she told him, brushing the dark hair from his sad eyes and smoothing her hand over his cheek and the dark hair peppering his chin. "You lost _everything_ – who wouldn't want revenge after that?"

He grabbed her hand and frowned. "Irina, there are many things I regret in my life," he told her, "but the things I did when I came back here the first time… I don't blame them for burning this place to the ground and calling me a monster."

Irina recalled what Helena had said about her grandmother and the stories she'd told about the peasant girls who had disappeared from her mother's village, who had been abducted by Dracula and stolen away to his castle. She hesitated, "Vlad, you were _angry_; you'd lost so much, you were betrayed by–"

He pulled away and tutted. "That's _no_ excuse for the things I did," he said as he pulled away from her. "For all the _terrible_ things I did here – to my own people – within these walls. If you knew what I–"

Irina turned in her chair and watched as he walked away. She wasn't sure she _wanted_ to know; Vlad was right, it didn't matter what had been done to him – it still didn't excuse the murder of innocents. A lump formed in her throat. She attempted to unhinge it with a hefty gulp of brandy.

Vlad let out a long sigh. "…Anyway, after I was driven out, I travelled again and – gradually – restored a little of my humanity," he went on as he crossed the room and made his way over to a large, gilt trinket box perched high on a shelf. He brought the box down and carried it over to the table.

Irina looked confused as he set the box down in front of her.

Vlad stood over it, staring at it. "…I was in Vienna one winter to settle some old accounts of mine and decided – on a whim – to prolong my visit to coincide with Karneval," he said. He waved his hand, "Gaming Houses have always been something of a lure. I told you that I've a gift for reading people; I can feel the slightest fluctuations in their emotions just by the smell of their skin and the tempo of their heartbeat – and, as you can imagine, that advantage has always proven to be quite lucrative."

Irina's gaze slowly lifted from the box, to Vlad. "…When was this?"

"I'd been considering the idea of returning to Transylvania for some time, to live out my days quietly – and in my pursuit of that idea, I'd been attempting to raise enough wealth to restore Poenari," he explained as he fiddled with the clasp holding the lid shut. "And so on the eve of Lent, I found myself in a gaming house with a blue fish painted on the signage – built into cellars beneath the street."

Irina felt her heart lop into her stomach as he threw back the lid and reached into the trinket box. "...Der Blaue Karpfen," she mumbled. "I know it. I've been there - more than once."

Vlad nodded, staring at her. "...I'd just won another game of Mariage and was considering moving onto Pharo, when a young woman… a goddess… brazenly – _bravely_ – appeared and challenged me to another game," he said, holding her gaze as he reached into the box and slowly teased out a string of black pearls. "I somehow couldn't bring myself to sell them."

Irina threw her hands to her mouth as her brown eyes fell upon her mother's necklace. There was no mistaking it. The pearls still held the same fresh gleam as when she last saw them being scooped off the table and into the pocket of The Count – as fresh as if they'd just been plucked from the sea. She felt the same dread in her belly now as she had that night – the same stomach-churning ache as when she'd stood up and shot The Count a venomous look before tearing off into the crowded room. He'd out-smarted her, humiliated her and then seduced her - taking _everything_ from her.

And now he was attempting to do it all over again.

Irina rose to her feet and stumbled away from the table, and away from Vlad. The bottle of brandy wobbled, then toppled off the table and onto the floor - it smashed like a firework across the flagstones. How could she have mistaken him? How could she not have known?

She shook her head and held her hand to her chest as she tried mould three men into one, a blurred vision within a dream suddenly coming into focus – clear and crisp. "…You're _him_. That was you," she stuttered. And yet, somehow it all made sense; every strange piece slotting seamlessly together before her very eyes. _The Count, of course._ "You're–"

"You wanted the truth."

She threw a hand to her head. Perhaps she'd known all along - she'd ignored the alarm bells ringing in the back of her mind every time they met. That distant tolling, like a church bell ringing in another town. She _knew_ he'd been withholding something from her - veiling her gaze to the truth. "…The truth?" she spat.

Vlad chased her, the pearls dangling from his hand – swinging from side to side. "Irina–"

She staggered away from him as if he were some dangerous animal, like the wolf she'd encountered in the clearing. She threw up her hand, "Just _stop_ – just… just…" She took a breath. "Just let me think. You need to let me think."

He halted and nodded.

Irina gazed uncertainly at the man standing in front of her for what felt like a long time. "…How long have you known that that was me?" she asked.

Vlad looked away.

"How long have you known that _I_ was the girl in Der Blaue Karpfen – that those pearls belonged to me?" she demanded, pointing an angry finger at them. "When did you realise?"

Vlad dared to smile. "All Hallows Eve," he replied with a shrug. "I knew the moment I saw you. I could _feel_ it. I could smell it - that scent of yours; roses, tobacco-"

Irina failed to see the romance. She shrugged her lips, "And you just… you just decided to keep that detail to yourself? For all this time? _Why_? Why didn't you _tell_ me? You've had ample opportunity."

"Because you didn't recognise me, and I didn't want to–"

"_No_," Irina interrupted angrily, "it's because you knew I'd steer clear - because you wanted to see how much you squeeze me of this time!"

Vlad frowned as he took a step towards her – reaching out to her, "Of course not. Irina, _iubita mea_–"

"If you cared for me at all, then you would have told me instead of keeping it from me - instead of holding it against me and using it to your advantage - drawing me in, leading me here! I suppose I should have expected nothing less from the Devil's prize pupil!" she snapped. "...I told you everything! I _told_ you how fiercely I guard my reputation, how important it is to me and still, you just–"

"Oh, enough about your damned reputation, Irina!" Vlad roared.

Any surprise she felt about his outburst was quickly replaced by the indignation that he had the audacity to be angry with her – after everything!

"Do you want to know what I think? Hm?" he growled, pacing towards her.

"Not anymore," she snarled back.

"Well tough, because you're going to hear it."

Irina braced herself.

He loomed over her like a storm cloud, "I think that it's nothing but a wall you throw up – a ridiculous excuse to cover up for the fact that you're just as much of a coward as all the other women of your class. That when it comes down to it you're not brave enough to embrace your own darkness - too cowardly to put your diamonds down on the table and risk them for what you really, really want from this life," he shouted at her, gesturing aggressively – his knuckles bleached white around the pearls.

Irina stood firm, scowling up at him.

Vlad snorted at her, his rough gaze travelling her curves without restraint, "And we both know _exactly_ what you want."

Before she knew it, she'd slapped him – _hard_ – and surprised herself with the force she threw into it. As his head cracked to the side she held back a sob, "Unlike _you_," she ground out through her teeth, "I have people who care about me – who _depend_ on me. You couldn't possibly understand."

He straightened and swept the hair from his eyes.

"And I think you've just proven _exactly_ what happens when I gamble. I get _hurt_," she hissed. She shoved him, "And how _dare_ you lecture me on throwing up walls when _you're_ the one who's been withholding the truth all this time! Hiding away in this ridiculous fortress you've made for yourself!"

Vlad stepped back.

Irina threw her head into her hands. "What's wrong with me? My father is _dying_! He's on his death bed back in Hermannstadt, the council want to see me thrown on pyre and I've chosen to be _here_ of all places," she rambled, her voice shaking. _How selfish!_ _How stupid!_ "What was I thinking? What am I _doing_ here?"

"Irina, please–"

She spun away from him. "I'm leaving. I need to go – let me go," she stuttered as she snatched up her cloak with a shaking hand and shoved past him.

Vlad glanced down at the pearls in his hand. He followed her, "It's late, at least allow me to–"

Irina's fingers fumbled with the satin ribbon of her cloak as she marched away from him. "_No_. Just stay away from me. Whatever _this_ was, it's finished," she threw at him over her shoulder, and yet when she turned her head back, she found him standing between her and the gate. She stopped in her tracks and panted angrily, sweeping the hair out of her eyes.

Vlad's gaze was darker than she'd ever seen it, and for the first time in his presence, Irina was frightened.

"Stand aside," she demanded.

He stared at her for a moment, and then stood aside. "…Here," he said, extending his fist towards her.

Irina recoiled from it.

Vlad's fingers unfurled to reveal the pearls. "Take them."

She sent him a fierce look before snatching them and storming out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, they'll find their way back to each other; as you'll see in the next chapter, they enjoy scratching at each other almost as much as they enjoy making up. ;-) I scrambled this chapter together from my sickbed this week after the flu took me down on Monday, so sorry if it feels a bit shorter than usual/rushed. I haven't had time to put together any historical notes this week - but I think everything in this one's pretty self-explanatory. That being said, if there's something that doesn't make sense, feel free to send me a message.


	19. Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get comfy, it's another long one. ;-)

_ **Hermannstadt, Christmas Eve, 1769** _

"One moment, Eos…"

His sonorous voice had cut through the music and the noise of the crowd and had immediately halted her march to the door. She'd turned back towards it, scowling through her gold mask as his sober, black suit and silhouette emerged from the throng of brightly coloured silks like a black cloud on a summer afternoon.

"…I'm not quite finished with you yet," he'd said.

She'd thrown her hands up and huffed. _Why_ had he followed her? "Well, I've _certainly_ had my fill of you," she'd replied as he shoved his way towards her.

"Not yet, you haven't."

The moment he'd thrown down the ace of diamonds and taken the game, Irina had torn away from the table with an indignant_ (and rather undignified)_ grunt – kicking over her chair in the process. The shame of it – of losing to him – had broken her, and she'd been desperate to leave at any cost, but she'd barely made it through into the next room before she heard his voice calling after her. How had he caught up to her so quickly?

And suddenly there he was, looming over her like a shadow creeping up a wall; she hadn't noticed how tall he was whilst he was sat at the gaming table. She'd had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. "…You've already taken both my pearls _and_ my pride, Count," she'd said. "What more could you possibly want?"

"I very much doubt you'll mourn the loss," he'd jibed smoothly; "I imagine ladies like you have more jewels than you have places to wear them–"

She'd glared at him; she was tired of being picked apart by a total stranger, "You know _nothing_ of–"

"I think I've _more_ than demonstrated that I do – and as for your pride?" he'd interrupted fluidly as he invaded her space.

She'd stopped breathing; with every breath she seemed to draw more of him in - his musk, his magnetism.

His lips had curled beneath his mask. "From what I can tell, you could _certainly_ stand to lose a little."

"How dare you!" Irina had snarled, rising a little taller to challenge him. "If you had _any_ idea who I was then you'd _swallow_ those words, Count; they'd be enough to have you whipped."

The idea seemed to amuse him. "…I'd take the whipping if it meant I could have your name," he'd dared her, knowing that she'd never reveal her identity to him; it was a card she was keeping _very_ close to her chest. "…Or are you going to make me guess?"

"The only games I play are card games."

With nothing more to say, she'd rolled her eyes as she grabbed her skirts and spun away from him – ripping through one of the soft, chartreuse curtains dangling beside her. She'd hoped – _prayed_ – that it might lead to a way out - that she could lose him - but instead it simply led into one of the cellar's stone cloisters and nothing but a dead end. A dead end furnished sparingly with a ripped chaise, a rickety side table cluttered with half empty champagne glasses, and a stuttering candelabra spitting wax onto the flagstones.

And then the curtain was suddenly swept to the side. When he ducked inside with a predatory look in his eyes, she'd taken a step back. "…If you _dare_ lay a finger on me–"

Half amused, half offended, he'd scoffed at the notion. "Without permission? I wouldn't dream of it, Eos," he'd replied, prowling towards her. He'd opened his arms and bowed, "After all, it is darkness who succumbs to the dawn – not the other way around."

She'd stared as he lifted his dark head and smiled at her. He'd been charming – _so_ charming – and Irina wondered why she hadn't seen it before. "…Then, _what_?" she'd demanded, her hands hanging limp at her side. "What do you want?"

"…Well," he'd said, standing up. "I _believe_ that the victor of a game of Mariagenspiel – as a rule – must kiss the loser. I'd hate for you to leave feeling as though I deprived you of your due. Especially on the eve of Lent, with all those serious, sober weeks ahead of you-"

Almost as if by magic, a distant tolling bell could be heard. Midnight.

Irina had practically laughed as she folded her arms; she'd been amused by such a weak ruse to kiss her. And yet, she'd blushed at the thought. "You're too late; it's already Lent."

He'd looked down at his boots and chuckled. "...Allow me to give you something to atone for, then."

"That _won't_ be necessary," she'd told him, but her whole body had prickled when she caught the mischievous look in his eyes.

"Oh, but I insist," he'd purred.

She'd raised an eyebrow under her mask. "…You didn't insist upon such a rule with your previous opponent."

He'd hesitated at that. "…Well, my previous opponent wasn't quite as… _alluring_," he'd explained as he circled her, his gaze roaming. "It's not every night you happen across a Goddess."

Irina had felt every muscle in her body tense when he stopped in front of her and then stooped to meet her gaze. Her lips had parted to respond, but words had failed her. She'd pulled a face and snorted - she couldn't have him thinking that he'd rendered her speechless after all.

"...In fact, I confess; I've never wanted to play by the rules more," he'd told her, almost in a whisper. "And you should know, Eos; that isn't exactly considered my forté."

She'd smirked. "That, I think I can believe."

Of all the men who'd flirted with her at court – all the boys who'd brought her roses from the gardens _(risking the wrath of the Empress' gardener)_ or pestered her father for the freedom to ask her to dance... even the ones she'd brazenly locked eyes with at the opera and then flirted with through the second act from behind her fan – none of them had looked at her the way _he_ had that night. His arrogance, coupled with that charming smile and slippery gaze had infected her with a fever so fierce she felt she might burst into flames at any moment.

And yet, her brown eyes had flashed nervously at the silhouettes and shadows dancing on the other side of the curtain before she dared to meet his eyes. "Very well," she'd whispered as she lifted her wrist – weighed heavily by a gold and diamond chain. "…You may kiss my hand."

She'd never forgotten the way he'd blinked once at her hand before he took it, nor the way he'd held her gaze as he lifted it and turned it over – exposing the fine blue veins along the inside of her wrist. He'd traced the pale skin there with his lips – _slowly_ – watching her eyelashes flutter in surprise and her breath stick in her throat. When she'd offered no objection, he'd gently reeled her in – pulling her arm over his shoulder and slipping one hand down to her bodice. The other had cupped the back of her neck – his thumb sweeping along her jaw and disturbing the diamond chandelier swinging from her earlobe.

And that was how – for just one night – she gave in to darkness.

Irina leaned back against the medieval walls of the Lupesci great hall, teasing the black pearls around her neck and briefly closing her eyes as she remembered how Vlad had suddenly drawn her in and teased his lips against hers – a soft, all too brief kiss before he pulled back and danced them just out of reach. With that kiss, he'd coaxed the temptress from the very cellar of her soul, and in the end _she_ was the one who finally closed the gap, frowning as she threw one arm around his neck and held his face with the other – rising onto her toes as she seized his smirking lips with her own.

She'd inhaled sharply, inhaled _him_ – the musk of his skin, his hair, his clothes – woody and wild – and after a clumsy first touch she'd quickly settled in – moving her lips firmly against his. It had been like plunging into a dark lake; after that first, hesitant step into the blue she'd waded deeper – becoming more confident with each stroke – until she submerged herself fully and willingly sunk down to the misty depths.

The thoughts in her head – all those fears and misgivings – had all at once been drowned out.

He'd kissed her thoroughly – one hand in her hair and the other tangled in the laces of her gown as he matched her fevered pace; he'd beat the breath from her lungs when he forced her back against the stone wall of the cloister. And when his hand had swooped down the arched column of her neck and traced the outline of her collarbone and the lace fringing along her neckline, she'd wondered how such a simple touch could illicit such a sensation deep within her. She'd ached for more, and when he palmed the swell of her breast within her bodice she'd moaned into his mouth.

_Vlad_. She'd told him to stay away from her and yet, she couldn't seem to get him out of her head. As it turned out, he'd always been lurking there – a faceless specter, half forgotten that she'd resurrected every now and then when she needed to feel the darkness again, when she needed to comfort herself with its presence.

"…Duchess?"

Irina glanced up and blinked at Liesl Fleischer, who was standing in front of her with a bewildered look on her face. She pushed away from the wall and smiled politely, "Fraulein. Fröhliche Weihnachten – Merry Christmas."

Liesl curtseyed, elegantly bowing a powdered wig glimmering with diamond stars. "Fröhliche Weihnachten, Duchess," she replied with a fretful smile. "Are you… _well_?"

"I'm fine, all things considered. Thank you for asking," Irina replied with a nod, her eyes flashing nervously across the great hall and towards the gaggle of guests who were sending pointed looks in her direction and gossiping over their glasses of wine.

Despite Prince Lupesci's reassurances that she was very welcome to attend the Christmas Eve Ball in his home, his other guests hadn't felt quite as at ease with her presence. Gossip about her was as fresh and as fragrant as the roast boar being served up – shot by the prince that very afternoon – and the town feasted upon its flesh with much the same fervour as they gorged on the stories circulating about her. Stories spread that painted her as a witch and a whore and a murderess – a _dangerous_ woman.

It was getting out of control; two windows in the Governor's palace had been broken by angry peasants that very week, and her carriage had been mobbed on the ride over. Only her patients – the women she'd helped – knew the truth, but unfortunately, they were far too scared to raise their voices over the rabble.

Liesl fanned herself impatiently; she wanted to remind Irina that she hadn't forgotten her kindness but was clearly desperate not to linger for too long. "I do love your gown, Duchess," she remarked with a smile, gesturing to the waves of teal satin cascading from Irina's bodice. "…And those pearls. Quite unusual."

Irina thanked her; she was grateful for the gesture at least. "...They belonged to my mother, the late Duchess."

"Oh, that reminds me, how is your father?" Liesl asked.

"He's… much improved," Irina lied; if it had been true he'd be standing beside her instead of languishing in his bed.

When she poked her head in to check on him before leaving for the ball, he'd been drifting in and out – and when his eyes fluttered open for the briefest of moments – enough to take in her pearls and fine gown – he'd smiled and called her by her mother's name. Irina's only solace was that Fiebe had promised to sit with him – with Folie and Scapino curling up close by. She'd be back before midnight, she'd promised.

Liesl looked relieved. "Oh, I'm _so_ glad to hear it!" she said, glancing once over her shoulder before she leaned in and lowered her voice. "…He's lucky to have a daughter like you, because – and I don't care what horrid lot are saying – if there's anyone who's capable of performing a miracle, it's you."

Irina bit her lip and nodded. _If only that were true_, she thought to herself.

"As soon as he's on his feet he'll put a stop to these treacherous lies, I know it," Liesl said with a wink.

Irina tacked on a brave smile. "…I know," she said. She waved her fan, "You should go; my disgrace is probably contagious."

Liesl offered her a sympathetic nod, and then – having done her duty – turned on her heel and returned to the mob, who immediately swarmed around her.

Irina rolled her eyes as she turned away from their disapproving glares and wandered the fringes of Transylvanian society and the great hall – gazing up at the medieval weaponry and artwork adorning the ancient stone walls.

The Lupesci Kastélya was practically a fortress; a crumbling, red building adjoining the town fortifications – including one of the towers. The hallways were as cold and as unwelcoming as Prince Lupesci himself, while the décor was fanatically traditional – from the carved wooden ceilings, to the iron chandeliers and threadbare tapestries. There were weapons from the Turkish wars decorating columns and archways, while a dusty pack of stag heads – with glazed, black eyes and slack jaws – looked down on the hall. While the other guests appeared to find it all a charming throwback, Irina found that it gave her the chills.

She fiddled with the bones of her fan as she stared up at a portrait of – undoubtedly – one of the prince's long-dead ancestors. It could have easily been Prince Lupesci; the two men seemed to share the same judgmental look in their hazel eyes, and the same pointed nose and snarling lips. There was something in their shape and stature too; the man in the portrait was thuggish and firm, domineering in presence with his chin and sword raised proudly, whilst he wore a bristling, grey wolf hide as if it were a coronation mantle. The only difference was the fashion; the velvet doublet and black hose _were_ a little fifteenth century.

The portrait was completed with the Lupesci family crest; a shield displaying a wolf. Irina had seen it everywhere that evening; on the gates of the courtyard, above doorways, and on almost every portrait – not to mention Prince Lupesci's signet ring.

Below it was a Latin inscription that read; _LUPUS AD TENEBRAS NON TIMEBAT_.

Irina's lips murmured soundlessly as she translated, "A wolf is not afraid of darkness."

"My four times great grandfather, and the last _true_ King of Hungary," said the prince, his voice growling suddenly from behind.

Irina startled and turned to face him. "Your highness," she sighed, catching her breath.

"I frightened you," he realised, gesturing for her hand.

"Hardly," Irina scoffed as she placed her hand in his and watched as he pressed his lips to her curled knuckles. She pulled away and returned her attention to the portrait, "An ancestor of yours? I was just admiring – uh, _studying_ – his portrait. You look just like him."

The prince seemed pleased to hear it; his lips cracked into one of his near smiles as he followed her gaze and glanced up at the portrait. He stepped alongside her, "He was a great man; a great King."

"I'm sure," Irina replied politely, side-glancing him. "Although, I'm afraid my history isn't very good when it comes to dead Hungarian Kings. What was he known for?"

"Well, among other things, he was a fearsome warrior," the prince explained. "He ruled Hungary peacefully for many years – fending off the invading Turks and standing up to Austrian demands – but he also made it his duty to protect his homeland – _this_ land – from a long line of pitiless rulers."

Irina looked at him. "Pitiless? How so?" she asked.

Prince Lupesci smiled, "Even if your Hungarian history isn't very good, Irina, I'm _certain_ you've heard stories of that murderous Wallachian warmonger known as The Impaler?"

"…The uh, moniker certainly rings a bell," she replied, clearing her throat a little.

"Well, _my_ four times great grandfather was the one who brought the beast to heel and imprisoned him after he slaughtered his own subjects and allied with the Turks."

Irina frowned; it wasn't exactly the same version she'd heard straight from the source himself. "That's not what I heard," she muttered, and when the prince's gaze turned on her with suspicion she looked away. She cleared her throat, "I mean, there are so many different versions to the tale of Vlad Țepeș – the tale of Dracula. How can we know which one is the truth?"

The prince snorted, "The one told to me by my father. The one told to him by _his_ father," he replied before continuing with his history lesson. "In that story, eventually – and without the support Austria had promised – the Turkish Janissary broke through and seized my great grandfather's legacy – splitting his lands. The Habsburgs took the north, the Turks took hold of Buda and the low-lands, and the home of _my_ ancestors – Transylvania – became torn between the two."

Irina nodded along politely, all the while warring with Vlad's slightly different interpretation. "…Fascinating."

"My family were given two options," Prince Lupesci continued, "either to bring Transylvania under Habsburg rule, or to buy back the throne from the Turks and become their subjects. They chose – in their mind – lesser of two evils and continued to rule Transylvania for many years, fending off Habsburg interests until the might of Turks began to decay at the end of the last century."

Irina's lips curled, turning to face him. She whipped open her fan, "Ah yes," she sighed. "The Turks moved out and we moved in."

Prince Lupesci looked down at her. "…Perhaps someday we'll have the place to ourselves again."

Irina raised an eyebrow. "Vienna would have to melt into the Danube first," she threatened. "...And I think actually, neither of us have a claim to these lands."

He chuckled humorlessly. "…Ah. I almost forgot," he said suddenly, snapping his fingers at a footman who had been waiting in the wings. "I have a gift for you."

The footman hurried over, and – draped across his arms – he carried a long pelt of silver fur, the fibers shuddering as he marched. It was beautiful, and Irina stared as it was handed it over to the prince.

Prince Lupesci smoothed the stole with his rough hand. "I tracked this one for two weeks after our hunting trip," he said, strolling behind her. "I finally caught up with it in the forests near Avrig. Determined fighter, but no match for my crossbow."

Irina froze as he wrapped the stole around her shoulders. As the soft fur tickled her skin and the guests all stared, a lump swelled up in her throat that she seemed unable to swallow.

His hands settled heavily on her shoulders. "…As I've told you before, I _always_ win in the end," he whispered in her ear before stepping in front of her. He lifted her chin to meet his gaze – his signet ring chilling her skin.

Irina shuddered; the town was already ablaze talking about her, and now Prince Lupesci had added fuel to that fire. Giving a gift to a lady in public was sign of intent – he may as well have signed his name upon her forehead. "…You really shouldn't have."

He shrugged his lips. "I couldn't resist."

"You ought to have tried a little harder."

The prince held her gaze. "Well, it is the season of giving after all," he replied, waving a hand. "Besides… You wear it well."

Irina looked past him and noticed the envied stares of the women hovering on the edge of the dance floor. "…I'm overcome. Will you excuse me for a moment?"

The prince politely stepped aside. "Of course."

Irina forced her way through the throng of guests like scissors through silk – without a care when she tore between couples in conversation or disrupted the steps of the minuet. She just kept moving - she _had_ to - until she reached the doors leading out from the great hall and away from everyone and everything. She swung herself out into the corridor, her fingers clawing at the walls as she stumbled into a dark alcove and sagged against the wall, panting for air. She wrestled the stole from her shoulders and threw it at her feet.

"Fuck," she breathed.

She shut her eyes tight as she attempted to catch her breath - imagining herself anywhere but that dark alcove. When she did she found herself back in Vienna – back in that stuffy cellar – when, for one night, no one knew who she was. She wished she could be that young woman again – selfish, angry, unrestrained – more wild-thing than woman.

Irina turned and pressed her cheek against the cold wall as she remembered how Vlad had lured that woman out of her - how she'd sighed when his hand had gathered up her skirts and blindly felt its way over her diamond garters.

He'd looked down at the band of sparkling stones around her thigh and smirked. "...I told you that you had more jewels than you had places to wear them," he'd purred as he cupped the back of her knee and hoisted it roughly over his hip. He brushed his thumb over the diamonds, "Whose eyes are these meant for Eos, hm?"

She'd dropped her head back against the wall and took a breath. "…Certainly not yours."

"Oh really?" he'd whispered against her throat as his lips climbed towards her jaw - his teeth grazing the skin along the way.

"…Really," she'd replied, her voice lost within a heavy sigh. She gulped, "And, you've already taken my mother's pearls so–"

He'd smirked at that – she'd felt it, and then she'd seen it in his eyes as his wicked gaze met hers. "...Your _mother's_ pearls," he'd tusked.

The way his lips curled at that had infuriated her; she'd quickly smothered them with her own. "...Mm. So don't even _think_ about setting your sights on my diamonds," she'd warned, an audible shake in her voice as she felt his fingers smooth over her thigh and then suddenly delve between them.

He'd held her fevered gaze as he whispered, "Actually, I have my sights sets on a higher prize," and then dragged his fingertips through the damp folds of her sex.

She'd felt her cheeks burn as he touched her, his thumb flicking and rolling over the tight bundle of nerves at the juncture of her thighs until she was nothing but a sore and shaking lump of satin. She couldn't remember feeling more aroused - more body than brain - like a wild animal; aware of nothing but the blood pulsing in her veins and that entirely new kind of ravenous hunger - that throbbing ache between her legs and the sudden desperate need to soothe it - _satisfy_ it - no matter the cost. She'd gasped and gulped for air – gulped for _more_ – as his head dropped from her lips to the slope of her neck – gnawing at it until her thighs shook and she cried out – partly in pain, partly in pleasure.

Before she could sag against the wall, he'd scooped her up - bracketing her legs around his waist and linking her ankles at the small of his back as he carried her and her voluminous weight of skirts over to the chaise. When he fell backwards into it she'd tumbled after him - colliding and washing over him like a roaring wave over a rock. She'd gripped the back of the chaise as it wobbled, trapping him between her arms as she smashed her lips against his in a bruising kiss - desperate, determined.

She could never explain - even to herself - why in that moment nothing else beyond that cloister - beyond that rickety chaise, even - seemed to matter. Not the voices beyond the curtain, not the late hour, not even Amalia - who she'd later find out had been searching frantically for her - not even the pearls or her own name. Like a thunderstorm rumbling in the night she'd bottled herself to the brink of destruction - and now she was tearing the sky over her head and scorching the ground under her feet, relishing the clamor and carnage of it all. Every strike was spontaneous and experimental; she'd bitten down on his lip _just_ to hear that low growl in the back of his throat and she'd rolled her hips just to feel his cock harden between her thighs - just to watch those cool eyes of his spark with desire and his grip on her backside tighten. She'd leaned over him, and - as he busied himself with kissing her breasts - she'd plunged her hand into the pocket of his coat, thinking herself clever as her fingers fumbled for her mother's pearls.

But no sooner had she felt the tip of her middle finger brush across the surface of a single pearl, he'd snatched up her wrist - pulling back and eyeing her sternly from within his mask. "Nice try," he'd tutted before dragging her hand from his pocket and swinging her down onto her back - pinning her hands above her head.

Any tremble of trepidation she'd felt at the entirely new feeling of a man lying on top of her - his erection only slightly muted by the layers of satin bundled between her thighs - was quickly soothed by the way he'd looked at her. His hands had slipped from her wrists; he'd leaned down on one arm - his hand resting in her hair - while the other smoothed along her thigh and anchored it over his hip. His eyes had danced back and forth over her features for a moment, then he'd released a soft groan and said, "Tell me... Tell me your name."

Her lips had curled at that; she'd risen slightly to taste those pleading words on his lips. Her gaze had flit upwards to meet his as she'd replied, "Don't spoil it now," her hands moving between them - tugging at the waistband of his breeches.

He'd released an impatient sigh, pressing his forehead against hers as he reached down to help her - freeing himself and roughly bunching her skirts up and over her waist. She'd held her breath when he lowered himself over her - hoping he didn't see the flash of fear in her eyes or the shame painted on her cheeks as the cool air within the stone cloister lapped at her wet and swollen flesh. She remembered how loose strands of his dark hair had fallen and brushed across her face as he looked down between their bodies for a moment before pushing forward and filling her – slowly, but purposefully – with a heavy groan.

She'd hissed at the sting she'd felt as her body stretched to accommodate him and had instinctively opened her legs wider - throwing one over the back of the chaise and dropping the other onto the floor. And then there was panic. Panic at the sudden realisation of what she'd done, what she was doing - what she'd lost - and for a few thrusts she simply lay there gripping his arms as he settled himself inside her. It had been uncomfortable - painful even - and all the warmth and desire that had been boiling within her had suddenly evaporated away. Almost as if it had never been there in the first place.

But then... _Oh_, but then. The pain ebbed away like the tide and was instantly replaced by a sensation _much_ stronger. When his hand slipped between their bodies, that flutter of warmth had quickly been stoked into a full on blaze. She'd opened her mouth and released a sound – halfway between a sigh and moan – and had dropped her head back onto the seat of the chaise, eyeing him through her mask as he moved above her.

He'd grinned; his face - his fevered gaze - hovering right above hers the whole time, savoring every pleasured look and every sound he coaxed from her. Minutes before she'd been so close to throwing him off and now suddenly she couldn't seem to get him close enough; she'd locked a leg around his back, gripped his arms, his neck, his hair - lifting her hips to meet every thrust and arching her spine just to feel the weight of his body against hers.

"...Shine for me, Eos," he'd panted, driving deeper, faster.

And with one final pressured roll of his thumb she did - throwing her head back with a strangled cry.

He'd buried his face in her neck - sucking down on it as he rode out her orgasm. And then finally, he'd joined her - his hips stuttering and the groaning sound of his own release muffed within the crook of her neck.

The silence afterwards had been deafening; the distant noise of the gaming tables had cut through the soft sound of their shallow breathing and immediately reminded Irina where she was, who she was and the gravity of what she'd done.

At the time she'd been sick with regret - with shame - but now? How she wished she hadn't shoved him away and run off into the night.

When Amalia had gasped, pointed to the bloody smear on her neck and asked her what on earth had happened to her, Irina had been confused. She'd thrown a hand up to her neck and felt her heart lop into her stomach when her fingers came away painted in blood. Hurt and embarrassed, she hadn't been able to decide whether she was more angry with him or with herself. And yet, she'd still been able to feel him inside her; not just inside her body, but inside her head - his words, his smile, his scent echoing there. She'd smothered the wound under her velvet cloak and shrugged it off with a wave of her hand and a simple lie: that she'd tripped over a table leg in the dark.

In the weeks that followed, she'd hidden the strange marks under a strategically placed fichu and lace collar until they healed and she could get on with forgetting the whole thing. Pretending that it had never happened. At the time she hadn't thought of them as anything more than marks of passion.

The Count, though – Vlad – he'd been a little trickier to shrug off.

Irina released a frustrated sob. "Fuck."

"…Sparrow?"

"Melia?" Irina gasped, peering around the corner to find Carmelia strolling towards her down the corridor. She was wearing an extravagant satin gown in a shade that seemed to be shifting constantly between purple and black and had powdered her blonde hair into an intricate updo.

Carmelia practically laughed when she found her cowering in the corner. "Is everything alright?" she asked, her sharp blue eyes glancing down at the fur stole lying limp and lifeless on the flagstones between them.

Irina dragged herself to her feet, gripping the wall for support. "…It will be," she replied, touching a cold hand to her clammy forehead and cheeks. "I just needed a little air, that's all."

"…Don't take this the wrong way, darling, but why on earth did you even come here tonight?" Carmelia asked. "The whole town is saying the most appalling things about you, you know–"

Irina rolled her eyes. "I'm aware. I'm ignoring it."_ ...Or trying to, at least._

"They've been saying that you've been bottling dead babies and whoring yourself… and now they're saying that you've bewitched Prince Lupesci–"

Irina couldn't help but erupt in laughter_. But of course they were saying that!_ "Well, wagging tongues never seemed to stop _you_ from attending a soirée," she snapped without a second thought.

Carmelia looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. She scooped up the stole, folding it neatly over one arm and smoothing her gloved hand across it. "…Well, yes, but then _I_ never skulked around making potions and stomping on important men's shoes, did I?"

As Irina stared at the cruel twist in Carmelia's lips and the ice cold look in her eyes, she thought about what Ferenc had told her on the road to Poenari. "…Why didn't you tell me that Fiebe was one of your serfs, Melia?" she demanded.

Carmelia batted her eyelashes innocently, "It never came up."

"...I find that a little strange," Irina went on. "After all, she's your _property_ – is she not? – and yet you haven't even attempted to claim her – not even once. _Why_?"

Carmelia waved a hand and rolled her blue eyes. "Because, honestly, one serf's as good as the next," she replied. "Really, Sparrow, my husband and I find ourselves tripping over them, we've so many! They're dispensable; I'm hardly going to lose sleep when one goes missing. In fact, it's almost a blessing when they do!"

But Irina wasn't convinced; she brushed past Carmelia and glared at her back. "…But Fiebe _wasn't_ dispensable, was she? She's a talented seamstress after all – such a _rare_ thing in these parts," she said, gesturing to the intricate floral embroidery across the bodice of her own gown – Fiebe's Christmas present to her. "It _must_ have been quite a blow to lose her… especially while you've all those Italian silks just waiting to be made up."

Carmelia looked bored as she spun – her skirts swirling. "Well then. Consider her a gift – from me to you, my dear. Besides, it doesn't matter anyway; I have a new girl now," she sighed. "She's a little slow, but she's… learning."

Irina felt her blood run cold. "…I do hope you're treating her with kindness and patience."

Carmelia's smirk was slow. "But why on earth would I do that? Fear always adds a little extra flavour, don't you think?" she replied as she took a threatening step closer – the perfume of her skin, her clothes, her hair powder invading Irina's space.

Irina felt her body become rigid as Carmelia lifted the fur stole over her head and wrapped it gently around her shoulders. She inhaled slowly as she did so; there was something unbearably familiar about the scent of her hair powder – that sweet and almost leathery perfume. Lavender and Orris Root. Unmistakable. "...Flavour?" she repeated, curious at her choice of word.

Carmelia nodded as she adjusted the stole, plucking an errant strand from the fibres. "We all have a taste for something," she told her with a smile as she reached out and tucked a loose thread of brown hair behind Irina's ear. "There now. There's a blizzard coming… I wouldn't want you to catch your death," she said as she flicked her chin with her gloved fingertips.

Irina held her breath as Carmelia suddenly leaned in and kissed her lips – a soft, threatening caress. And when she closed her eyes she was back in that alleyway, feet cold and drenched in snow, her face slammed into a stone wall. The speed, the otherworldly scream, the scent of her attacker.

No wonder they'd never found him. It wasn't a _him_ after all.

Irina's eyes widened.

Carmelia's blue eyes danced knowingly around her freckles for a moment before she pulled away and grinned. "…You're ever so lucky to have Prince Lupesci prowling after you, you know. He's quite a greedy hunter, once he sets his eye on a quarry, he simply refuses to share even a scrap with anyone else," she said, her gaze dropping to the pale flesh of Irina's neck as it vanished under the stole.

Irina shuddered visibly.

Carmelia sighed heavily at the sight. "I wouldn't fight him off so fiercely if I were you – just look where that gets you," she warned pointing to the stole as she took a few steps backwards and then walked off down the corridor - casting a furtive glance back.

Irina blindly fumbled for the wall.

She slumped against it just as Fiebe came rushing around the corner. Her footsteps slowed a little when she passed by Carmelia heading back into the great hall; their eyes met for a short, intense moment before they went their separate ways.

"…Ducesa!" Fiebe shouted, hurrying over and grabbing her hand.

Irina reached out to her. "Fiebe? What are you doing here?" she asked, fear gripping her. "You shouldn't _be_ here; you know very well what they do with serfs who–"

"Ducesa, forgive me, but you _must_ come! You must come _now_!" the girl insisted as she tried to drag her away from the wall.

"Wait, who's taking care of–"

Fiebe looked stricken. She bit her lip and looked down. "…Your father, Ducesa," she cried. "Please, you _must_ come quickly!"

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**Fröhliche Weihnachten: **German, "Merry Christmas"._

_**Fichu:** More historical clothing; a Fichu is basically kind of a scarf or shawl that was worn by women. It was usually made from a light fabric - either muslin, cotton or lace - and was tucked into the neckline of a gown. They could be worn for modesty reasons or reasons relating to the temperature or time of year (...or to conceal Vampire bites...)._

_**Lavender and Orris Root Hair Powder: **Wigs, hair pieces and just big hair in general were "in" throughout the 18th century. They were actually mostly worn by men - women usually just made do with extra hair pieces to create the big coiffed styles that come to mind when we think of Marie Antoinette and other famous eighteenth century ladies. Of course, no L'Oreal Elnett back in the day and so they had to fix their do with something else. Most used hair powder made from starch that was scented with either lavender or orange blossom, and orris root. Once the wig or hairdo was in place - the powder was kind blown through bellows onto the hair to fix it (there's a great scene at the very beginning of **Dangerous Liasons** \- GOD I LOVE THAT FILM - where Valmont and Mertuille are both seen getting ready, and Valmont wears a long cone-like mask as his wig is powdered. I think that's probably one of the best scenes in film when it comes to showing how men and women dressed back then... and the scaffolding underneath! But also, great film!). Of course, all these elaborate dos should have come with a health warning - big wigs could catch a flame from a candle, and they often made a lovely home for lice. :-)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you sense Irina getting backed into a corner, then you'd be right. Long Chapter, I know - I just couldn't find a way to cut it down - but hopefully you enjoyed it and didn't mind all the flashing back and forth, and that hopefully it made sense. I've been tweaking this chapter all week, and... I'm still not completely happy with it. But meh, too late now :-)


	20. Twenty

_ **Hermannstadt, Silvester 1769** _

As they slowly lowered the Duke's coffin into the ground, Irina felt Fiebe's fingers crawl across her knuckles like a comforting spider. The whole town had crammed itself into the snowy grounds of the cathedral to watch – the nobility in fine black satin and the poor in their rags – they all huddled around the grave like mournful crows shivering in the cold as yet another Governor was laid to rest far from home.

It had been barely a week since her father's death and despite Irina's pleas to the council to let her take his body back to Vienna – back home to be buried in the Brunswick crypt alongside her mother just as he'd _always_ wanted – the town council had firmly refused. His body had still been warm – Folie and Scapino whimpering at his side – when the men came to take him away from the palace.

He'd failed to give his final confession, they warned.

His _soul_ was in danger, they claimed.

It wasn't safe to let his body linger.

Irina had cursed Archbishop Sigismund when he swept into the room to perform the ritual for the dead, and she'd called Doctor Tarsus an animal and a monster when he came to prepare the body. She'd tried to fight him off; she threw herself over her father, and then kicked and screamed when the footmen dragged her away as the doctor hammered a silver stake through her father's heart and filled his mouth with cloves of garlic. It was a sensible precaution, the Doctor had insisted with bluster and thinly-veiled satisfaction, and Irina had sobbed in the corner with her arms limp around Folie's neck as they'd placed her father face down in his lead coffin and then nailed it shut.

She hadn't even been allowed to say goodbye.

She'd written furious letters to the Empress, knowing full well that they'd never make it in time. It was too late for an intervention now. Irina could only hope that when the letters _did_ land on the Empress' imperial desk, she'd be equally as furious.

Irina scowled through her black, lace veil as the Archbishop commenced his final prayers. There were no more tears left to cry – they'd all but dried up, and her eyes felt stale and sore. She'd barely been able to dress that morning; she'd left her diamonds in her jewellery box and had swatted Fiebe's hands away when the poor girl had offered to arrange her hair. The only piece of jewellery she'd chosen were the black pearls – and that was only because she hadn't taken them off since getting them back. She'd always said that she wished she could wear black more, that it suited her better than any other shade. Still, having a piece of her mother with her offered her some comfort - even though when she brushed her fingers over them she found herself thinking more about Vlad.

"…Requiem æternam dona, Domine," Archbishop Sigismund chanted as he splashed holy water across the heavy coffin as the first grains of frosty earth were shovelled over the top. He crossed himself, "Requiescat in pace. Varde retro satana, sunt mala quae libas. Amen."

The crowd replied in unison; crossing themselves, clutching their prayer beads and muttering their own amen. They fixed their hostile gaze upon Irina as she stood there staring downwards as the earth swallowed up her father. They didn't care that he was dead – they barely knew him – and yet they somehow felt they knew _her_ enough to blame her for his death. The mutterings around town were that she'd either murdered him herself – poisoning him in his sleep – or, that her scandalous behaviour had broken his heart and put him into his grave.

When Irina lifted her veil, Prince Lupesci met her gaze.

He was standing opposite her – at the other end of the grave – wrapped in a fur lined coat with one hunting boot propped up on the pile of the earth that would soon bury the coffin. He pulled his lips into a tight line and offered her a sympathetic nod. He'd tried to visit her several times since that night of his Christmas Eve Ball and she'd had the footmen turn him away every single time. She just didn't have the energy to tolerate him, and besides – Carmelia's words had chilled her. During those quiet moments of grief - when her mind wandered away - she wondered if anyone else knew the truth about Carmelia.

Speaking of which; the woman was nowhere to be seen. Her husband had turned up of course - just as the other members of the council had, all clustered around the prince as usual - but no Carmelia. Well, it _was_ broad daylight after all.

Did Prince Lupesci know? The man who'd once claimed that he was working day and night to hunt down the man or monster responsible for the attacks and yet had failed to find or arrest a single soul?

Irina abandoned that trail of thought; it wasn't going to be her problem for much longer.

Archbishop Sigismund closed his prayer book and smiled. "Thank you all for coming," he said. "And do not forget that tonight's midnight mass will be held to celebrate the Feast of Saint Sylvester and the coming new year."

Irina sighed.

Last year she'd spent Sylvester with Amalia. They'd stayed at Schönbrunn and – since they both knew that they'd be leaving Vienna soon enough – they'd invited an old woman to their rooms at midnight to perform _Bleigießen_ \- to read their fortunes by pouring hot lead into cold water, divining the future by the shape the metal took as it solidified. Amalia's droplet formed the shape of a slipper, which the old woman foretold meant marriage and movement. When it was Irina's turn, the drop of lead had danced upon the surface for a moment before it suddenly pulled together into a ball and then sank straight to the bottom like a stone.

The old woman had reached into the bowl with withered fingers and pulled out the lump of lead. She'd held it up to her glassy, gleaming eyes for a moment before throwing it back into the cauldron to melt. She'd been frustratingly mute, and Irina demanded to know what she'd seen the old woman had held her gaze and said, "Go again. Sometimes we need a second try to accomplish what we couldn't before."

If _only_. If only she could go back and have a second try.

Irina scoffed; she'd heard and seen enough of the funeral, of _everything_. She shook her head, picked up her black petticoats and stomped away through the snow towards her waiting carriage. She couldn't bear to think of her poor father resting for eternity in such a barbaric place, and she couldn't wait to begin arranging her journey back to Vienna. As soon as the snow melted and the mountain roads became passable again, she'd leave and wouldn't look back.

Fiebe chased her down. "…Ducesa?" she said, pressing a hand to her mistress' arm.

"I'm _fine_," Irina insisted, shrugging her off. "Please don't fuss. I can't bear it."

"…Yes, Ducesa," she replied, holding back.

Fiebe had barely left Irina's side since that night. She'd always been protective, but the past week she'd practically made a pest of herself – _constantly_ asking if she was alright and if there was anything she could do. For the first couple of days it had been endearing, but now it was becoming a little suffocating.

Irina hesitated before climbing into the carriage. "…I'm sorry," she told Fiebe, forcing a smile. "Look, I'm grateful for all that you've done – you've been so kind, even when I haven't been. But maybe you should go and visit your brother for a few days? Why not celebrate the new year with him - I doubt I'd make very good company."

Fiebe looked hurt. "My brother?"

"I hope he's alright," Irina said as she climbed into the carriage and slipped into her seat. "You haven't talked about him much and I haven't seen him since he took me to…uh, took me _hunting_. You haven't had a falling out, have you?"

Fiebe climbed in after her and sat opposite, her blue eyes downcast. "…He is safe – _fine_, Ducesa. And well."

"Look, I meant what I said about freeing him, you know – it's just that with my father no longer Governor, things might be a little bit more difficult–"

Fiebe nodded. "I understand."

"Look, I'll be returning to Vienna soon and – well, I wouldn't want to presume – but I _had_ hoped that you both might consider coming with me," Irina said as she knocked the roof, signalling for the driver to go. It was barely a two-minute walk across the square to the governor's palace, but it was cold, the cobbles were slippery with snow and ice – and the people were even frostier. "Only if you want to, of course. I wouldn't want to steal you away from your homeland."

Fiebe blinked at her as the carriage began to roll away; she was practically breathless. She looked down and frowned, "Oh, Ducesa. You are so kind – and I…" she began to say but was interrupted when the door suddenly swung open and Prince Lupesci leapt inside, forcing her into the corner.

Irina glared at him. "…Your highness! What on _earth_ do you think you're – how dare you!"

"Forgive me, Duchess," he said as he closed the door and beat his leather-clad fist against the roof. "But you've been refusing guests all week and I urgently need to speak with you."

Irina rolled her eyes and slumped back into her seat as the carriage clattered off again. "…I don't want to speak to anyone, your highness; I'm in _mourning_," she reminded him.

The Prince nodded. "I'm aware and I'm sorry for it – and that's exactly why I didn't want to force my presence on you, but–"

"And what exactly would you call this then?" Irina interrupted. "I mean, what could _possibly_ be so important that you felt the need to barge your way into my carriage instead of doing the decent and respectable thing and allowing me my privacy – they _just_ buried my father after all."

"–Irina, there are certain things that _must_ be discussed," he told her firmly, his hazel gaze taking in her unmade hair – curling within the hood of her cloak – and the dark rings under her eyes. "Things that cannot wait."

Her shoulders dropped. "…_What _things?" she sighed, shaking her head. She was sick of fighting; she didn't have the strength to stoke her usual fire - it had gone from the roaring, spitting blaze to a dying ember.

Prince Lupesci raised his eyebrows as they bumped along through the snowy square. "We must discuss your future here."

Irina snorted; in spite of everything it appeared she was still able to muster a little of her usual scorn. "…My future? _Here_?" she repeated. She almost laughed. "Alexander, my future is in _Vienna_. The townsfolk here have made no secret of the fact that they hate me – that they think I'm a witch and a murderess and a whore – why on _earth_ would I choose to stay? If I do, they'll end up throwing me on a pyre, or worse." She tutted as she peeled back the curtain and glanced out of the frosty carriage window – at the crumbling old buildings, their rooftops laden with snow and icicles. "…I don't belong here."

"…I strongly disagree," Prince Lupesci replied as the carriage slowly came to a stop. He opened the door and got out – his boots crunching into the snow.

Irina watched as he turned and offered her his hand, his fur-lined coat flaring as he spun. "Well, as touching as that may be, you're the only one," she reminded him as she slid towards the door and allowed him to help her out of the carriage. She smoothed down her skirts, "My father would want me to return home to Vienna, and that is _exactly_ what I'm going to do. As soon as the spring thaw arrives, I'll be gone… and I doubt anyone will miss me."

The prince followed the hem of her velvet cloak as it trailed across the snow covering the courtyard. "Actually, your father had other plans," he said. "He wanted you to remain here in Transylvania; he even went so far as to make arrangements to ensure it."

Irina stopped and turned. "Arrangements?"

The Prince stepped alongside her. "Those arrangements are precisely what I wanted to discuss with you," he replied, his breath fogging the air between them. He gestured to the palace doors, "…Shall we?"

"Very well," Irina said as she forced her way up the steps and into the palace.

Once she'd greeted Folie and Scapino – who came bounding across the entrance hall towards her – she escorted the prince into the parlour, where they each took a chair within reach of the warmth of the crackling fireplace. Irina removed her cloak and gloves and handed them to Fiebe, whilst Prince Lupesci waved down a footman and ordered him to bring them some brandy.

"Well?" Irina urged as she settled her cold hands in her lap amongst the black satin ruffles of her mourning gown. "As his only child, I've been privy to the contents of my father's will for a long, long time – he made sure of it. _Insisted_ upon it. I'm intrigued to hear what's suddenly changed."

Prince Lupesci cleared his throat before he spoke. "Firstly, _I_ will be taking over as Governor of Transylvania," he said, placing his hand to his chest – the reflection of the fire dancing over his signet ring.

Irina scoffed; she wasn't surprised. "Of course you will. Temporarily, I suppose," she assumed, "until the Empress chooses a more suitable - more permanent - replacement?"

The prince almost smirked. "Actually, no," he replied, settling comfortably in his chair and crossing one snow-encrusted boot over his knee. "Your father sent my credentials to the Empress some time ago and recommended that – should the need ever arise – _I_ would be a suitable choice to replace him."

Irina narrowed her brown eyes. "…The devil he did," she replied as the footman appeared with a glass of brandy in each hand.

He set them down on gaming table between them.

The prince scooped up one of the glasses and took a sip. He licked his lips, "You were right by the way, he _did_ have a particular way with the Empress. His advice carried weight."

Irina was sceptical – after all, she knew Prince Lupesci had been forging her father's letters for some time. "And his signature, no doubt."

The prince savoured another sip, licking his lips. "You said your father was an ambitious man, well... just wait and see what _I_ have planned, Irina. I think it'll make you reconsider the meaning of the word."

"…And I suppose the Empress has agreed to this?" Irina asked, reaching for her own glass.

The prince nodded. "Of course. I have the letter, if you'd care to see it… in fact," he told her, turning to the footman, "will you fetch the documents I mentioned earlier from the late Governor's study?"

The footman bowed his head. "Of course, your highness."

Irina blinked after the footman as he left the room - as if he was a dog that had suddenly learned to walk on its hind legs. She frowned at the prince, "I assume you'll be moving into the palace, since you already seem to be making yourself at home!" she snapped. "Perhaps you'd care to sample my father's bed while you're here; see whether it's comfortable enough for you!"

Prince Lupesci opened his mouth to reply but then seemed to change his mind at the last moment. He looked down and smiled instead. "…Which brings me onto the second matter."

Irina felt her stomach roll as she took a sip of her brandy. The liquid scorched its way down her throat; it tasted like swill compared to the stuff Vlad had given her.

"As his only daughter, your father was adamant - quite rightly - that you should be protected if something were to happen to him," the prince explained, gesturing with his glass. "He wanted to ensure a thriving future for his lineage, and that you wouldn't be alone–"

Irina held her glass a little tighter.

"–It seems that in the weeks before his death he was in the process of arranging a marriage contract," the prince went on, just as the footman reappeared beside him wrestling with a bundle of paperwork.

Irina narrowed her eyes. "…With whom?"

"Well, he _was_ planning – he _hoped_," he said, his eyes settling upon her, "that you and I would marry."

Irina slammed down her glass and laughed. "…He mentioned no such thing to me."

Prince Lupesci shrugged his lips as he set down his own glass. "Strange," he replied as he took the papers from the footman. He began rummaging through them, "Because as far as I can tell, he'd been corresponding with the Empress on the matter for the past month – at _least_."

"…_You_ did this," Irina accused, standing up and pointing a finger at him like a sword. "My father's barely been able to get out of bed this past month let alone arrange a marriage contract behind my back! I nursed him myself, he was delirious towards the end!"

The prince barely flinched. He plucked one of the papers from the pile, "I really don't know what to tell you, Irina; his signature and seal are all over these–"

"Forgeries!" Irina hissed. "Don't think I don't know _exactly_ what you've been up to all this time! All those afternoons spent poking around his study and putting his seal and signature to whatever _whim_ happened to be on your mind at the time. I've heard of some underhand proposals in my time, but this…? _This_ is quite beyond the pale!"

The prince stared back at her.

"And anyway, it doesn't matter; the Empress would never agree to such an _inferior_ match," Irina insisted.

He grunted as he placed the paper down flat on the gaming table. He slid it towards her, "She already has."

Irina blinked at him before she picked up the paper. Her eyes danced across the letter and attached contract as she saw words such as '_scandal_' and '_shameful_', as well as phrases such as _'given recent circumstances'_ and '_the best offer she will get_' – and there - right at the bottom - was her signature and seal. Worse, she was threatening to withdraw Irina's rights _(and her children's – if she ever chose to have any)_ to the Duchy of Brunswick – to everything her father had worked for – if she failed to comply.

"She thinks the match will do a great deal to bolster Austro-Hungarian relations," the prince drawled.

Furious, Irina balled up the letter and hurled it onto the fire. She chased it with the rest of her brandy and enjoyed the roar of the flames as they chewed it up. "There. Problem solved."

Prince Lupesci raised his eyebrows as he watched the paper burn. He chuckled, "It's all been agreed to, Irina," he remarked with a sigh. "It's done."

"Well, consider it undone because I _certainly _won't agree to it," Irina flared, storming away.

"You must do your duty as a daughter. As an Austrian."

She spun. "And what about my duty to _myself_ – to my own happiness?"

"You have no such luxury," he replied.

"I disagree. For the first time I'm free to make my own decisions about my own life! And do you know what? I'm quite determined that it won't involve either you _or_ this God awful place," she shouted as she headed for the door. Fuck waiting for the spring thaw, she'd pack and take her chances now.

The prince stood up. "Do you _really_ think, Irina, you can just return to Vienna as if nothing has changed?" he warned her.

Irina ignored him.

"...After everything that's been said and written about you?" he said. "The stench of scandal isn't easily aired, after all. I think you'll find Vienna a city _full_ of closed doors."

Irina stopped. She turned and scowled at him, but she knew he was right. Her tattered reputation would be there waiting for her; it would haunt her wherever she chose to go. If she chose to leave, she'd have to take her jewels and leave the Duchess of Brunswick behind. She briefly considered running to Parma - to Amalia, who would _never_ turn her away. But she couldn't - wouldn't - tarnish Amalia with her disgrace. What was that peculiar Transylvanian saying? Something about doves that chose to fly with crows would find that their feathers turned black.

Prince Lupesci strolled over. "I mean, even the Empress – your own godmother – has washed her hands of you," he said as he stopped in front of her.

Irina slapped him. _Hard_.

When he recovered, he grabbed her wrist with equal ferocity. "As it stands, Irina, you haven't any other option," he told her. "If you break the terms of the contract now then you'd not only be betraying the wishes of the Empress, but of your own father–"

Irina struggled. "Like hell I–"

"You'd lose everything," the prince interrupted firmly. "_Everything_. And not simply your title. The Council have been pressing me to have you arrested - have you burned in the square for witchcraft, for _murder_."

She looked up at him fearfully. "You've no evidence-"

He held her gaze seriously. "The potions and poisons in your room are a good enough start-"

"Medicines!" she corrected angrily.

"They won't see them as that," he told her. "It'd be enough, and you know it."

Irina panted - her eyes as wide as a sow being led to the slaughterhouse.

Sensing her resolve weakening, the prince loosened his grip. He took her hand in his, "Now, consider this. If you marry me, you'll be protected and will at least have the hope of finding _some_ redemption in all this. You will still have your title, and will live with all the finery and comforts you are accustomed to, and _more_. Your reputation will be restored – somewhat – and _together_ we will rule Transylvania."

Irina watched as he lifted her hand to his lips and planted a kiss on the knuckle of her ring finger.

Afterall, the winner of a game Mariagenspiel must _always_ kiss the loser.

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**Sylvester: **The religious feast of Saint Sylvester aligns with **New Year's Eve** \- traditionally it was spent partying and feasting, and then the old year was rung out at a midnight mass. In Austria, they used to walk pigs on leads through the streets to bring good luck, played games and read fortunes through _ _**Bleigießen** (see below)._

_**Schönbrunn:** The Hofburg is the main Imperial Palace in Vienna, _ _Schönbrunn is another just outside the city I believe (or what used to be called "outside" the city, anyway) _ _\- it was usually used as the winter residence._

** _Vampire Burials: _ ** _So this is all real - this is exactly how they buried bodies they were worried would rise as vampires back during the height of the hysteria during the 18th century. And it wasn't just people they thought had been bitten, or whose behaviour suggested they might become a troublesome, pesky vamp beyond the grave - they suspected redheads, those who committed suicide, unmarried men and women, criminals and those who had been executed, and - here's probably the strangest one - the seventh child of the same sex born in a family. The bit about them putting the body face down in the coffin cracks me up - I mean, it's totally grim - of course - but it's such a ridiculous, obvious and kind of hilarious way of preventing a body from rising from the grave. I keep picturing this scene in my head of the vampire hunters all sitting around a meeting table racking their brains as they try to work out how to prevent vamps rising from the grave, and then upstart Vampire Hunter Dave suddenly snaps his fingers and goes, "Wait-wait-wait-wait! I got it, guys. Kind of controversial, but how 'bout we bury them face DOWN. Problem solved. Boom." *snort*_

_**Bleigießen:** **"Lead Pouring"**. So, if you're a classic Simpsons fan then you'll probably remember Lisa and her mates performing a similar ritual with wax during a sleepover. It's a real thing, and people still do it around New Year to see what the year ahead might bring them. That's Carromancy (divination through molten wax), what Irina and Amalia engage in is called **Molybdomancy**_ \- _basically divination through molten metal. Traditionally "Silvesterblei" was used - Silvester Lead (no idea what makes it Sylvester-y, I think it's just bog standard lead tbh). These days we're more aware of the dangers lead poses - but back then they used lead for practically everything - including makeup. And they wondered why so many women died young! (Thank God for Revlon, eh?)_


	21. Twenty One

_ **Hermannstadt, Violet Tuesday 1770** _

Vlad groaned as his back hit the mattress of a creaking bed inside an even creakier room. The bed swayed dangerously as Leonie pounced on top of him like a cat – clawing her nails down his chest and stomach until she reached the waistband of his breeches. When he moved to help her she swatted his hands away; she tugged and tore at the placket with more urgency than he'd ever seen from her, freeing his cock in an instant and then immediately sinking down onto it with a pleasured sigh.

He snarled and bucked his hips as her hot flesh engulfed him. "…_Slowly_."

Leonie ignored his breathy request; she threw the tail of wispy blonde curls over her shoulder and began riding him like a cart on a bad road. "...I missed you," she purred from behind her green, velvet mask. It was all she was left wearing of her costume for Karneval; the crown of laurel leaves and gauze shift stitched with silk flowers abandoned on the floorboards by the door – dropped and discarded before he'd even had a chance to ask her who or what she was supposed to be. "…And, I know I should not say that… I _know_ how you hate it... but, it's been weeks; I was worried..."

Vlad shut his eyes and beat his head back into the pillow; he reached down and grabbed her hips – trying to slow her frantic pace. "...You shouldn't have concerned yourself," he muttered, trying to concentrate.

"…But I thought... I thought that you had forgotten about me," Leonie whimpered as she snatched up his hands and slapped them against her breasts – holding them there as she rolled her hips. She threw her head back and moaned. "I thought that you had found another."

"…Forgive me," he demanded gruffly after a pause. "I've been… _preoccupied_."

It was nothing more than an empty excuse, but actually – _annoyingly_ – it wasn't that far from the truth. He'd spent weeks holed up within the crumbling walls and candlelit bowels of Poenari – indulging in anything and everything that could keep him occupied. He'd practiced his swordplay, re-read his favourite books, and drank through a good deal of his dusty store of brandy as he pondered over his plans for rebuilding the castle – _anything_ that could take his mind off of the unbearable feeling of being besieged from something that no weapon or fortification could ever withstand. Anything that could take his mind off of _her_.

The trouble was that she'd broken through his defenses long ago. And worse, he'd let her. He'd practically flung open the doors and invited her in.

Why the devil had he even invited her to Poenari in the first place? Before, he could easily forget about her if he picked up a sword or climbed the western tower to catch the last of the sunset – but now he found her scent lingering in every cobwebbed corner. He could hear her angrily playing the harpsichord - those damned eyes of hers cast down at the keys, lashes brushing the smattering of freckles across her cheeks. He could feel her warm skin and her trailing fingertips and everything they'd touched, including himself, and he was still picking small pieces of glass from the crevices of the flagstones where the bottle of brandy she'd sipped from had smashed _(Grande Champagne Cognac from 1704 – a truly tragic loss)._The only part of her she'd taken when she left had been the damned pearls.

He didn't like to admit to himself how many times over the years he'd slipped the gleaming strand from his casket of jewels and reclined in his bed, thinking of _her_ – of that night. He'd war with himself over it - growling as he hid casket from view and _still_ ended up fishing his fingers into it. He'd lift the pearls to his nose and inhale the distant smell of them – of _her_ – and remember how she'd felt, how she'd tasted. A vintage – as she'd termed it – so rare and delicious. He used to chuckle to himself when he thought about how she'd shoved his shoulder and wriggled out from underneath him – casting a flushed and furious glance in his direction before fleeing. He'd chased her lingering scent all the way to the gardens of the Hofburg before turning back and retreating into the night.

It had been nothing but a harmless memory until she'd turned up in _his_ kingdom – just as beautiful and twice as beguiling as before. And suddenly - just like the pearls and the casket - he found he couldn't help himself. It was just as well that she'd taken the pearls, because now the memory of that night only served to make him angry – make him ache. What had begun as a simple desire for a second helping of something rare and special had turned into something far more difficult to resist. Now he didn't just long to taste her – to touch her – again, but to possess her utterly.

Vlad turned his head to the side and sighed. Was this _really_ what the great Vladislaus Dracula had been reduced to? A sentimental fool willingly entombing himself within a decaying castle, comforting himself with memories of the past – of what he'd once been – sneaking out to a creaking brothel every now and then to feed, to fuck – to remind himself of what he'd once had. The truth was that he'd pooled more than enough gold to restore Poenari for some time now, but he'd been holding off – holding himself back from doing it.

Why? What was stopping him?

He'd been a king once; he wanted to be one again, to have – to _feel_ – that kind of power in his veins. But the world had changed so much since those days – and whereas he'd physically changed with it, he found that his mind hadn't quite caught up. The truth was that he was still clinging on to a long forgotten past and was unsure of his place in the future. Unsure of _himself_. Of his legacy.

Of course, he could have everything he wanted in a heartbeat – _if_ he so chose. An army, a throne. A bloody coup would be easy. _Too_ easy. Besides, the world had changed and was beginning to demand more than just a heavy hand from those in power. He needed to adapt – to evolve. But how?

Infuriatingly, Irina had been right. What right did he have to lecture her on hiding from herself when he was doing _exactly_ the same thing?

Leonie suddenly stopped moving above him. "…Oh," she pouted as she wriggled her hips and looked down between their bodies. She sent him an awkward glance, "Did I do something wrong...?"

Vlad rolled his eyes as he patted her backside – silently asking her to move. "…No," he grumbled as he threw an arm behind his head. "I'm just tired."

Leonie raised an eyebrow as she lifted her leg over and then sprawled alongside him. "But... it's only midnight," she said. "Is that not much the same as noon to you?"

Vlad hesitated. She had a point. "Hm."

"… Maybe I could… do you want me to try something else, perhaps?" she asked, her blue eyes glancing down his body. She traced the muscles over his stomach, "You haven't tasted me yet," she suggested, quirking an eyebrow. "You _must_ be hungry..."

Vlad stared up at the ceiling, following the cracks with his eyes. "…Thank you, but I've lost my appetite."

Leonie puzzled. She glanced down at his cock, "Would you like me to taste _you_?"

He let out a long sigh as he rolled onto his side – turning his back to her. "No."

"No? Next you will be telling me that you have a headache!" she complained.

Vlad rolled his eyes. "It's certainly getting there."

Visiting town tonight had been a mistake. He'd been so desperate to get away from Poenari – so desperate to distract himself and take the edge of his pent-up anger with some meaningless sex. Leonie had always been a satisfying distraction between the sheets; her fair hair and dimpled flesh had always been pleasing on the eyes, and her blood tasted of the small mountain village in the Carpathians where she was born - unchanged in a hundred years - and of the marzipan fruits that one of her other clients liked to bring her. But as soon as he'd strolled into the noisy parlour of the Capota de Trandafir and saw all the masks and revelry underway for Karneval, he'd instantly regretted his decision.

The bed shuddered as Leonie got up and stomped across the room. She shook her head as she snatched up her shift and began to dress.

At the sound of her feet on the floorboards, Vlad sat up. "…What are you doing?"

She scoffed. "You pay to fuck me and to feed from me," she replied as she pulled the shift over her head and dragged it down over her curves. "And since neither of those things seem to interest you tonight, I will go."

He sent her a stern look. "Leonie, I–"

She threw one back through the holes of her mask, "There is only one thing – one _woman_ – interesting you tonight, and it is not me, and so I will go–"

Vlad frowned and shook his head. _For fuck's sake_, "You don't know what you're talking ab–"

"Do not try to deny it," she said as she released her hair from her collar. "You may be three hundred years wiser than me and understand the tongue spoken in every town from here to Paris… but in _this_ language, Conta? _I_ am the one who is fluent."

Vlad sighed as he leaned up within the tangle of sheets. "Do enlighten me."

Leonie shrugged at him. "Perhaps _you_ did not notice, but everything changed the moment _she_ arrived here. Everything. This changed. _You_ changed," she told him, gesturing to him as he sat there pretending not to listen to her.

"I haven't," he argued quietly – mostly with himself. He tutted at himself, "I haven't changed in three hundred years Leonie, I'm not about to start."

She smiled as she folded her arms; he might have been over three hundred years old but he could still act like a sullen youth when he wanted to. "Prostii! You think you are different but in this? You are the same as any other man. I see it so many times it is almost boring," she explained. "A sudden change in appetite and touch – a rough hand becomes a soft one… a shift from casual to passionate. The empty eyes. The _closed_ eyes. Swallowing down another woman's name before you spit it out. The signs - they are all there."

Vlad turned away and fixed his gaze on the buckled floorboards as she suddenly tucked her knee under and perched on the bed.

"You see! I am not stupid; I can tell when a man is imagining himself between the thighs of another," Leonie said.

He snorted.

"And I am not angry, it is nothing to me - I do not care, I am not starved of cock or coin; go fuck your Duchess."

Vlad glanced at her with some amusement. He suddenly remembered why he'd chosen Leonie in the first place; he'd always been intrigued by her indifference and her bruised feelings towards the world around her. He could taste it in her blood – sour and spicy; flavoured with every man who'd ever wounded her. And yet there was a hunger there that he could taste too. A hunger for more from life.

She raised an eyebrow. "All I ask is that you give me what you owe me – what you promised me long ago," she said. She waved a hand, "There is a reason why I give you a discount - why I keep your secret."

Vlad raised an eyebrow at her and smirked. "And here I was thinking that was all down to my charm."

She smiled coquettishly, but still pushed the subject. "I mean it, Conta. You promised me."

"Now's not the time, Leonie."

"Then _when_?"

Vlad growled as he got up, quickly seeing to his breeches and glancing around for his boots. It was time to leave - time to retreat back to Poenari. He wanted to yell at her on his way out the door, tell her that _he'd_ decide when that time would come – if it ever did. And then he thought of Irina; how she'd called him cruel for stringing Leonie along and put a rein on his anger.

"_When_, Conta?" she demanded, standing up.

He found his boots at the foot of the bed and scooped them up.

"I have been _more_ than patient; I have waited long enough."

Vlad turned. "Leonie, you have no idea what waiting even is," he snarled at her as he perched on the edge of the bed and shoved his feet into his boots one by one. "No idea at all."

Leonie stomped after him – her bare feet slapping the floorboards. "Oh, don't I?" she shouted as she stopped at the foot of the bed and stood over him. "I spend my whole life waiting! Waiting for men – waiting for them to beat me, to fuck me. I wait for jealous wives to call me a witch. I wait to be locked away. I wait for my beauty to fade; I wait to catch a bastard, or worse… I wait to run out of coin, to be thrown out on the street… to be left to rot like Sofie. I _know_ what waiting is; I don't want to do it anymore."

Vlad wiped a hand across his jaw; across the blunt, black hair growing there. "Leonie–"

"Do you know what I _do_ want? I want to watch the rest of the world rot around me," she told him as she placed her hands on her hips, "whilst I bloom forever like a sofran. I want more for myself than-" she huffed at her surroundings, "than _this_."

He looked up at her and raised a dark eyebrow. "...And you're perfectly content to watch everyone you care about rot away as well, I suppose."

Leonie shrugged her lips as she plonked down beside him. "I have no one to care for," she told him.

Vlad frowned; he sent her a sideways glance. He believed her, "But that won't make it any easier," he told her. "I don't think you understand what you're asking of me. There's a _reason_ why I've never created another of my kind, Leonie. Aside from the loneliness, the transition from human to vampire can be… it can be _challenging – _at best. Think about the worst hunger you've ever experienced, then multiply it–"

Leonie shrugged, "I spent most of my childhood starving – you know this - an aching belly is as familiar to me as breathing."

Vlad sent her a piercing look. "Fine. Now imagine yourself with that aching belly but constantly surrounded by a feast of the most delicious food you've ever tasted – ever smelled," he explained. "Imagine plates spilling over with marzipan fruit and having to restrain yourself from gorging on them."

She couldn't even restrain herself from licking her lips at the thought of it.

He shook his head. "Without supervision you'd be vulnerable, _volatile_. It can take _years_ to develop the kind of control required to survive–"

"I _know_ how to survive – you know that I do," she insisted, her blue eyes wide – wide with guileless hope. "And as for the rest, you will teach me."

Vlad scoffed, then chuckled. He leaned back on his hands, "Another reason why I've never had the desire to procreate. All that responsibility quite gets in the way of... more _pleasurable_ pursuits."

Leonie leaned on her side and grinned at him. "But I promise I will behave," she purred, cocking her head innocently - peering at him through that ridiculous mask. "I _always_ do as I am told – I have been a good whore, have I not?"

Vlad flicked her chin fondly. "The best," he agreed.

"…So?" Leonie pressed. "I will be the best Vampire. A Queen of the night."

Vlad looked at her and considered it. She _was_ probably the best candidate he'd ever come across in a long time – and she was willing. But still, he groaned as he stood up from the bed. He'd promised himself that he never would. He'd clung onto that promise; of all the terrible things he'd done, _that_ had been the one good thing - the one saving grace. He'd treasured that last shred of humanity. If he lost that, he was frightened of who he might become.

"…I _can't_," he replied, holding his hands up. "It's a curse – I couldn't. I'm sorry."

Leonie stared after him as he padded around the room, lacing his breeches and searching around for his shirt. She let out a long sigh as she drew swirls on the sheets with her finger; she shrugged her lips, "Fine. If you are so willing to break your promise to me, Conta," she muttered, "then the next time someone offers me diamonds for your secrets… they will find me _just_ as willing."

She barely had a moment to blink in the time it took him to close the space between them and seize her by the neck. He bared his fangs as he loomed over her and pinned her body to the lumpy mattress.

"…You _dare_ to threaten me?" he growled.

Leonie scowled up at him – she barely moved; she didn't even attempt to claw at his hand. "…I," she wheezed, "have nothing to lose–"

Vlad tightened his grip and enjoyed the flash of fear in the watery eyes that peered back up at him through the green velvet mask. "I _disagree_."

"–But _you_ do," she warned him. "…You _do_ have something – someone – to lose."

Vlad held her furious gaze for a moment before he let go, retracted his fangs and then stepped away. She was right; with one word she could ensure he was driven out of Transylvania _again_. He'd lose Poenari. He'd lose Irina. He smashed his fist into the nearest wall; he was quickly becoming an example of how control could be easily lost – even after hundreds of years spent mastering it.

Leonie sat up at the sound of the flimsy plaster wall crumbling like a biscuit. Dust showered down from the ceiling between them. She smoothed hand down her neck as she glared at his back – at his shoulder muscles as they tensed and flexed. She'd never seen him so racked before - as cold, wild and destructive as the north wind. "I know you must be angry about the wedding... but being here - it won't change that."

"...Wedding?"

"Why waste your time here... with me? You _know_ that time... is running out," she wheezed, wincing as she swallowed and tried to catch her breath. "If you want to be with your Duchess... then I suggest you stop coming here... make it happen sooner rather than later."

Vlad turned to face her. "…What do you mean 'running out of time'?" he demanded. "What wedding - what are you talking about?"

When Leonie noticed his bewildered expression, she blinked in surprise. "…You mean, you have not heard?"

"Heard _what_?"

She almost felt sorry for him. "Aoleu..."

"Tell me."

Leonie pushed the mask up onto her head; she frowned before she met his gaze. "Your Duchess is to be married to Prince Lupesci," she told him. "I thought you knew this, I thought that was why you-"

"That's a cruel joke, Leonie – even by your standards." Irina marrying into diluted Hungarian nobility? The notion was laughable.

Leonie was amazed, "It's not a – I thought you knew," she went on, incredulous at the ignorance of a man who'd lived for three hundred years and claimed to know everything about everything. When he didn't respond she threw her hands up, "Este adevărat! Her papa arranged the match before his death, and then the prince stepped into his empty boots. He is Governor now – this is old news, _how_ do you not know all this?"

Vlad threw his hands into his hair; he raked his fingers through the dark waves. How indeed. "Irina's father - the Duke - he's _dead_?"

"_Prostule_! Perhaps you did not notice Conta, but this town? It still manages to breathe when you are not in it, you know," Leonie reminded him. "We do not hold our breath for you. I _certainly_ don't."

And she was right, he _was_ a fool; whilst he'd locked himself away within the walls of Poenari the world had been very busy turning itself on its head. "When? When did he die?"

Leonie shrugged. "He was sick; he did not live to see the new year," she explained. "There were even vapours being thrown around for a time that your Duchess poisoned him. But, of course Prince Lupesci - he quickly smothered those when he asked for her hand. Lucky for her; she was a skip away from being burnt in the Piata Mare, so I hear."

"_Lucky_," Vlad muttered, shaking his head; none of it made any sense. Why the devil would Irina agree to such a thing? She'd _never_ in her right mind submit to such an inferior match; she was a willful, prideful colt who refused to stoop for anyone – why had she suddenly given in and taken the saddle, as it were? She'd sooner go back to Vienna. "…How do you know all this, Leonie?" he demanded, disputing the source of such ludicrous gossip.

She sent him a look. "My face fell off just as yours has when one of the girls first told me–"

Vlad brushed her words aside with a snort. He rolled his eyes; whispers between whores were about as reliable as a silk sword. "_Oh_. I see."

Leonie sneered at him, "You might think that we are nothing but a bunch of gossiping whores, but you forget – some of the most influential men in Transylvania choose to spend their nights here," she reminded him. "And sometimes they are as loose with their secrets as they are with their coin."

"…What have you heard?" Vlad pressed, stepping towards the bed.

"Well. One of the other girls – she is the mayor's favourite – and she tells me that he likes to talk. _A lot_. Likes to _sound_ bigger than he looks – if you understand my meaning," Leonie explained with a wink. "Anyway, he bragged to her that she would soon have to start calling him Baron, as the future _King_ was going to raise him and make him such."

Vlad stared at her. "…Future _King_?"

Leonie raised her fair eyebrows. "It seems Prince Lupesci wishes to be more than just Governor of Transylvania. He does not come here, but the men who do - they are always talking about his royal Hungarian lineage," she told him. "He and his council plan to push out the Austrians and rule by themselves. There is a reason why we cannot seem to keep a Governor for more than a year - why they keep dying so, _so_ mysteriously..."

Vlad was aghast.

"These men, they call themselves The Carpathian Con–"

"The Carpathian Conclave," Vlad interrupted on a long, weary breath. _Fuck_. He couldn't decide whether he was bored of those idiots or furious with them.

Leonie hummed as she leaned back on the bed. "Ah, the coin drops – you've heard of them."

"…Unfortunately, yes," he replied, the sound of flames licking the bricks of Poenari rising in his mind as he recalled the last time he'd faced The Carpathian Conclave. "I had hoped they were extinct by now."

How dare they! How dare they presume to steal _his_ throne – to plunge _his_ country – _his_ people – into a bloody war with the Austrians. Anyone who indulged the might of Habsburgs was either mad or had a deep desire for death – probably both.

An who the hell was this upstart prince at their head? He felt his blood boil at the thought of a damned Hungarian's treacherous hands touching Irina.

But what did _she_ have to do with all this? She'd always bragged that she was destined to become a Queen someday – but her blood was Austrian; he doubted she'd throw her lot in with a Hungarian rabble and overthrow an Empress she adored and looked up to simply to feel the weight of a crown on her head.

And then he considered the very real possibility that she'd been maneuvered into a corner; that she was nothing more than a pawn in a man's stratagem to steal power.

He scoffed to himself; oh she'd just _love_ that.

"I have to go," Vlad told Leonie as he quickly finished dressing himself. "I have to see her."

Leonie stood up and nodded. "I understand," she replied as she watched him shrug into his jacket and fiddle with the cuffs.

"I have to get to the bottom of this," he went on determinedly as he stomped towards the door. "I have to warn her. I have to stop it."

Before he could leave, however, Leonie snatched his wrist. "_Go_," she told him. "...But do not forget what you promised _me_."

Vlad stared at her.

"...Because, Conta," she warned, "I promise you that _I_ will not forget."

Vlad turned back, gently cupped her neck and drew her towards him. He kissed her forehead, nodded once, and then left.

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

** _Grande Champagne Cognac: _ ** _You learn something every day, so goes the saying, and that's never more true than when you're a writer constantly researching all kinds of random crap. So, **Cognac** is a type of Brandy (Armagnac is another) that's made in France. Cognacs are then divided up based on the "Cru"/region in which they're made - and that as you'd expect changes the flavour and quality of the cognac. Vlad's preferred cognac is Grande Champagne Cognac - the best (naturally) - which is made in the Charente region of South West France. Bottles of Louis XIII Grande Champagne Cognac (that's the brand, not the age!) cost upwards of £2000(!) - and that's cheap from what I've seen online._

_**Hofburg:** The main Imperial Palace in the heart of Vienna._

_**"Prostii": **Romanian, "Rubbish!"_

_**Sofran: **Romanian, the word for Snow Drops - that little white flower that blooms towards the very end of winter._

_**"Aoleu":** Romanian, "Oh my"/"Crikey"_

_**"Este adevărat":** Romanian, "It's the truth!"_

_**"Prostule":** Romanian, "You idiot!"_

_**Piata Mare: **The main square outside the Governor's Palace in Sibiu._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of fresh scenery this week - I thought we needed to poke around Vlad's head a bit. Also, I kind of love Leonie; she was one of those side characters that was never supposed to speak much, and then I let her have a sentence and couldn't bloody stop her. I love it when that happens! It's honestly one of my favourite things about writing, you never know when a character is going to start making demands of their own and take the story in a totally different direction than you expected. ;-)
> 
> Hope you've all had a lovely week whatever you've been up to. We're definitely heading into the end zone now, although there's still a bit more to come.


	22. Twenty-Two

Irina sat at her vanity table gazing at her reflection as she dragged a brush through her hair. The curls crackled like the candle in front of her as it licked the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks and kindled in her brown eyes. As she chased the brush with her fingertips – smoothing the brown curls - she wondered whether she'd soon recognise the face staring back.

_Everything_ was going to change, and there would be no going back.

"What you think, Ducesa?" Fiebe asked as she held up a blue stomacher freshly embroidered with black flowers, flecked with blossom white pearls.

Irina took a passing glance at it through the mirror.

Fiebe hovered behind her, smiling hopefully as she held the stomacher up against her chest. "I finish for you this morning. You like it?"

"It's... very fine," Irina replied, her voice flat. She was quietly wondering whether she could get away with wearing black; after all, she _was_ technically still in mourning.

Fiebe's shoulders dropped as she looked down at the bodice. She'd worked on it for _days_, squinting by candlelight to finish it in time for the wedding. "…It will look beautiful, I think. Blue is your best colour," she said as she carried the stomacher over to the wooden mannequin near the window, stepping over the limp bodies Folie and Scapino as they snoozed side by side on the Turkish rug.

Moonlight trickled into the room through cracks in the curtains and cast an eerie pall over the swathes of blue satin, their colour reflecting onto the floorboards like a puddle.

"What I do with your hair?" Fiebe asked. "I put flowers in for you?"

"It's too early for flowers."

"…Not for some. I see sofran growing in snow outside of kitchen this morning."

Irina set down her brush. "I really don't mind, Fiebe," she sighed as she rested her head in her hand. "Do whatever you want."

Fiebe frowned as she reached down into her sewing basket and plucked out a few pins.

Her mistress had always been so particular about her hair and about what she wore. But in the weeks after her father died she seemed to be more comfortable in her chemise, mules and dressing gown than _any_ of the collection of expensive and enviable manteau in her closet. She hadn't touched her diamonds or dressed her hair or rouged her cheeks. It was as though she'd given up on being herself.

Fiebe sandwiched the pins between her lips, "You know, it is lucky you will be married tomorrow," she carried on cheerfully as she began pinning the stomacher to the bodice of the gown. "Tomorrow is Dragobete – the day the birds are to be married also. The first day of spring; of a new beginning."

Irina's eyes settled on her mother's string of black pearls, curling like a viper on the surface of the vanity. She reached out and touched them, brushing the tips of her fingers over the obsidian orbs. It certainly didn't feel like a new beginning; to her it felt like the end.

"My Mamă say that on Dragobete is lucky to take the last snow, melt it and drink its magic," Fiebe explained as she admired the finished gown – brushing down the pleats falling from the waist. Pleased with the finished gown – her finest yet – she scooped up her sewing basket and strolled to the bed. "I will bring you some, Ducesa; it will give special power to your medicines," she suggested as she set down her basket and then began to peel back the coverlet and arrange the pillows.

"There won't _be_ any more medicines or infusions, Fiebe," Irina groaned as she stood up and walked over to the bed.

Folie lifted her head as the hem of Irina's chemise brushed over her. She yawned and then eased up onto her paws.

"I _told_ you. That's done with."

Only a few days ago Irina had ordered Fiebe to get rid of all the herbs and infusions cluttering the shelves in her bedroom. She'd intended to have them distributed to the serfs living at the foot of the steps of the lower town – as well as among the women of the Capota de Trandafir – but every single vial was refused; _no one_ wanted to touch what they believed were simply poisons and potions – the products of witchcraft.

When Prince Lupesci had found out about her attempt to make use of them he'd ordered the contents of every last jar to be burned on a bonfire in the courtyard – all the while claiming that he was doing it for _her_; that he was trying to help her, to protect her. Irina had watched the bonfire from her bedroom window in horrible turmoil; she knew she'd escaped a similar fate herself and yet she couldn't seem to ignore the sinking feeling that she'd simply swapped one kind death for another.

Perhaps the most painful part of it all had been the fact that Doctor Tarsus had inherited all her medical books, _and_ her microscope. It wouldn't have been so terrible if he'd taken them with the intention of actually using them to _help_ his patients, but Irina knew that they'd simply be gathering dust – he'd only taken them to annoy her, to relish the look on her face as they were boxed up and spirited away.

The smell of the smoke had lingered for days; the shelves were a constant reminder of the changes that were underway.

Fiebe frowned and shook her head; she couldn't bear it, "But, Ducesa–"

"No. My future husband has made himself quite clear on the matter. We are to be on our best behaviour," Irina insisted. "…_Everything_ will be different after tomorrow."

The prince had made himself very clear on _several_ matters – not just on the subject of medicine; in fact, the whole month had been one long negotiation – with court lawyers and accountants from Vienna arriving to oversee them. Prince Lupesci had emerged with a bride, the Brunswick estate in Saxony, a townhouse in Vienna and a veritable fortune, whilst Irina had emerged with an overbearing husband, the added title of Princess _(which wasn't nearly as illustrious as it sounded), _and what remained of her reputation pieced back together like a shattered ornament. She would have to stop doctoring, stay in Transylvania, and be a dutiful wife and mother; _that_ was the price to pay.

There would be one small victory however; the Empress had insisted that the prince would _not_ be allowed to call himself Duke of Brunswick. _That_ title – as well as their combined inheritance – would be reserved for their first-born son.

Irina was surprised when Alexander had seemed to shrug off that small stipulation – especially after the way he'd bragged about his bounding sense of ambition.

Fiebe moved to help Irina shrug out of her silk dressing gown. "…Ducesa," she sighed as she neatly folded it over the back of a chair. "You _not_ have to do this... you not have to marry Prince Lupesci–"

"Yes, Fiebe. I _do_," Irina replied firmly. As soon as she said the words, she laughed, "See? I've already memorised my lines. I shall give a mesmerising performance tomorrow."

Fiebe looked pained. "But this is not _play_, Ducesa – is not opera," she warned as she watched her mistress slide her feet from her mules and climb into the bed. "You must write your own lines."

It was certainly starting to feel like an opera - a tragic one, where the lead soprano suffered a mournful death. Admittedly, they used to be her favourite - but now, she would have given anything for her life to mimic a lighthearted opera buffa. One act of madness and laughter followed by an _'all's well that ends well'_ ending.

"Society doesn't care for women who ad lib, I'm afraid. In fact, they burn them," Irina replied. She couldn't help the small smile that spread across her lips as Folie leapt up onto the bed and flopped in a ball beside her. She reached down and stroked her velvety ears. Thank God Prince Lupesci had nothing against dogs - although she did worry how his own hound, Demon, would get on with hers.

Fiebe looked confused. "Ad lib? I not know this word."

"It means to speak off script, to improvise–" Irina shook her head, "It doesn't matter. I shan't be doing it anymore anyway."

"Ducesa, I not like Prince Lupesci," Fiebe blurted.

Irina blinked at her surprise. "...Where's that suddenly come from?" she asked. "I thought you were just as brainlessly beguiled by him as the rest of the women in this ridiculous town?"

Fiebe looked down and frowned. She counted the stitches in the coverlet for what felt like a long time before she shook her head and said - in a firm voice, "I _not_ like him. He is not good man."

"Well, count yourself lucky that you don't have to marry him," Irina scoffed. "...And pity the poor woman who does."

Fiebe's blue eyes danced nervously as she neatly arranged the covers around Irina's waist – her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Something was hanging on the tip of her tongue.

"What is it?" Irina asked.

Fiebe looked at her. She bit her lip, "Is nothing."

"Out with it," Irina insisted.

"…The man," Fiebe said. "The one from the Capota de Trandafir."

Irina looked down. "What about him?" she asked as she folded her hands over top of the coverlet.

"…I _know_ you go to see him," Fiebe told her.

Irina blinked angrily at her.

"_Please_ – do not be angry; Ferenc say nothing," Fiebe insisted quickly as she perched on the bed beside Folie.

Irina raised an eyebrow. "Then how did you know?"

Fiebe chewed on her lip. "You wear rouge that night," she explained as she smoothed a hand down Folie's back. "_Rouge_? To go hunting, Ducesa? At night time? Is strange, I think."

Folie stretched out her paws and rolled onto her side, sighing heavily as she leaned against Irina's thigh.

"Ferenc _try_ to keep secret, Ducesa," Fiebe went on, gently scratching the dog's belly. She shrugged, "But I worry – so I ask him, and he cannot lie to me. Is impossible."

Irina rolled her eyes and sighed.

Fiebe fixed her gaze on her mistress. "…This man," she went on. "Ferenc say he is dangerous. He say that you went into castle with him, and whatever happen inside it make you cry the whole way back to town. He say this man try to _kill_ him–"

"He wasn't expecting us – he wouldn't have harmed Ferenc," Irina insisted, jumping to Vlad's defense in spite of everything. "Look, he lives alone… he doesn't have guests very often."

Fiebe raised a coppery eyebrow. Her smile was slow, "You love him."

Irina scowled suddenly. "_Love _him?" she snorted as she shuffled down under the covers. When she found her pillow too lumpy, she sat up and thumped it so hard that Folie sat bolt upright. "…What a _ridiculous_ thing to suggest."

And it was. Love was a big word; its true meaning continued to elude her. She _knew_ she was attracted to Vlad; she could feel it in her blood and in her bones. She'd wanted to know him, wanted to _be_ with him… but love? She wasn't sure. And was even less sure since finding out that he'd lied to her.

Fiebe didn't believe her. "I see the way you look at him that night," she insisted. "The way _he_ look at you."

"…It's complicated, Fiebe," Irina replied. "He's…" A liar? A cheat? A scoundrel? A Vampire? _The_ Vampire? And yet, "There's a lot more to it than that."

"You should go to him," Fiebe said, reaching out and touching Irina's hand. "Before is too late."

Irina tutted as she slipped her hand out and curled onto her side. "It already is."

Fiebe stared at her for a moment, then nodded. "…I let you sleep."

She smoothed the covers as she stood up from the bed, but as she stooped to blow out the candle beside the bed she accidentally kicked over her sewing basket which turned and spilled its contents across the floorboards beside the bed. She cursed under her breath as she quickly fell to her knees, scrambling to scoop everything up before the pins dropped between the floorboards or the cotton reels rolled under the bed.

Amongst the needles and the bobbins of thread, a small jar of dried herbs suddenly tumbled out from between the bundles of scrapped satin and rolled across the floorboards towards the bed. Irina reached down and scooped it up; her murky brown eyes narrowed as they passed over the label – over the handwritten words and scribbled skull accompanying them.

"…Mercurialis perennis," she read aloud. "This is Dog's Mercury…"

Fiebe wrung her hands in her skirts as she knelt amongst the contents of her basket.

Irina looked at her. "Fiebe, why do you have this? I thought I told you to get rid of _all_ the herbs."

"…Yes, Ducesa, you did – and I _did_, but–"

"Well, what's this doing in your basket then?" Irina asked, holding up the jar. "You do _know_ it's poison, don't you? _Otravă_, you understand? It's dangerous."

Fiebe nodded briskly. "Of course, Ducesa," she replied, sweeping the rusty curls from her eyes. "I remember now, I find it on floor behind trunk… I put in basket to keep safe and must have forgot."

Irina held out the jar. "Alright, but it needs to go – Prince Lupesci was _very_ clear," she said. "Not to mention what might happen if one of the dogs got into your basket – you _know_ what Folie's like, she'll eat anything. Get rid of it please – safely. Burn it outside - tonight, please. Don't let anyone catch you with it."

Fiebe took it. She looked down at the jar, her blue eyes heavy with guilt. "_Yes_, Ducesa… I will," she promised.

Irina watched as she threw the jar into the basket – smothering it under scraps of lace and silk – before hurrying to the door, blowing out the last of the candles as she went.

The room immediately fell silent and the rest of the palace followed soon after; the footsteps of the maids and the footmen fading into the night as they completed their final chores for the day. But Irina struggled to fall asleep. An hour limped by – the clock on the mantle chiming ominously – and she was _still_ wide awake, curled on her side and staring at her wedding gown.

She tried to saddle her mind, but it kicked and bucked against sleep like a wild horse – refusing to relent. She knew marrying Prince Lupesci was the _sensible_ thing to do – perhaps the only thing to do – and yet, she felt a sense of dread creeping over her unlike she'd ever felt before. And _anger_; she knew she'd had a part in backing herself into the corner she now found herself in. If only she'd kept her head down and had behaved like a good Duchess – just a bundle of agreeable petticoats in the corner without thoughts or opinions.

But she hadn't; she couldn't. She'd made her bed and now she had to lie in it. Even if sleep was intent on evading her.

When she realised that if she'd still had her herbs she could have whipped up a little something to calm her nerves and help her sleep she wanted to scream out in frustration.

It was not long after the clock had chimed two when Folie suddenly sat bolt upright – her nose twitching.

Irina – still awake – sighed as she smoothed a hand along the dog's back. She hadn't heard anything herself and a quick look down the side of the bed revealed that Scapino hadn't either; he was still sleeping soundly on the Turkish rug. "What is it?" she asked.

Folie's ears pricked and turned forward. She gruffed, then suddenly sprung off the bed and padded towards the bedroom door.

Irina groaned as she threw back the covers and slipped out of bed – embracing the cold and the darkness. "…What did you hear?" she whispered as she quickly snatched up her dressing gown and followed the dog's stealthy black shadow to the door.

Folie whimpered; she was looking up at the handle and scratching her paw against the grain.

_Oh_. Irina rolled her eyes, "Do you need to go out," she said as she reached for the handle.

Folie looked up at her, panting impatiently – her brown eyes bright.

As soon as Irina opened the door the hound bolted into hallway and bounded down the stairs – her paws skittering and sliding on the floorboards. Irina blinked at her in surprise as she quickly pulled on her silk dressing gown and then hurried after her – padding barefoot down the stairs. She made it to the entry hall just in time to see the pointed end of Folie's whip-like tail slipping through the doors to the ballroom – open barely a crack.

"What's gotten into you?" Irina muttered impatiently as she tiptoed after her.

The ballroom was empty and in darkness. Moonlight poured in through the large windows and painted the floorboards. The servants had been decorating the room all day ready for tomorrow's wedding breakfast and ball, hanging garlands of fresh foliage over every window and door frame, and wrapping them up the pillars to the minstrel gallery above. There must have been a hundred fresh candles in the sconces and chandeliers and tucked in among the garlands – all waiting to be lit.

Archbishop Sigismund had protested strongly that it was highly unusual and against canon law to hold a wedding during Lent - _particularly_ on Ash Wednesday, a holy day of abstinence, sacrifice and fasting - but Prince Lupesci had soon brought him round. The decorations would be tasteful and subdued, he said. There would be no music or dancing, he promised. The bride would be dressed respectfully and without jewellery. But most importantly of all - since most of the town and wedding guests would be observing the traditional daylight Lenten Fast, the ceremony and feast would be held after sunset. There would be an simple ceremony in the cathedral without an extravagant nuptial mass, and they would forgo the usual table of roast meat, instead dining meagerly on bread and wine.

Other than the lack of meat from one of his hunts weighing down the table, Irina decided that the other stipulations probably suited the prince quite well. She mourned the fact that she'd never have the wedding she'd always imagined; when she thought of the week long celebrations of balls and banquets that Amalia's brother Joseph had enjoyed, she wanted to weep. 

Irina swallowed down the lump in her throat as she stepped inside the modestly decorated ballroom. The sight of it all made her sick.

Folie didn't seem bothered by it; she swung her tail from side to side as she sniffed her way across the room, weaving in and out of the shadows until she suddenly stopped and sat down – panting as she stared into a corner of the room in full shadow.

Irina huffed as she stomped over. "…Folie, leave it. It's nothing," she hissed. "Come back to bed."

But when _nothing_ suddenly stepped out from the shadows and into the moonlight, Irina stopped – her breath caught in her throat.

She watched as Vlad's hand smoothed a path between Folie's ears, his lips curling as the dog leaned fondly into his touch. He was dressed like the shadows around him – black coat, shirt, waistcoat and boots – darkness incarnate, and he'd come seeking his dawn.

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_ **Blue Wedding Dress: ** _ _Contrary to what most people think, white wedding dresses weren't traditional until Queen Victoria wore white to her own wedding and kind of brought it into fashion. Mary Queen of Scots wore white to her wedding back in 1559, but only because she loved wearing white and thought it suited her (white was actually the colour of mourning for French Queens - so that one caused a bit of a stir). Before white became synonymous with brides, lots of different colours were used. The main idea was to show off the wealth and standing of the bride's family - so the focus was more on the quality of the fabrics, furs, jewels etc. rather than on the colour of the gown. Historically, certain colours of fabric were more expensive than others - especially blue (Also, the Virgin Mary is usually painted wearing blue for "purity" - so not that far off a wedding shade as you might think!)._

_**Dragobete:** A traditional Romanian holiday celebrated on the 24th February, Dragobete is the celebration of the start of Spring (hence "The Wedding of the Birds" because it's around that time that birds start scouting for nests). It's also kind of a Romanian Valentines Day where boys and girls pick spring flowers for each other - particularly "sofran"/snow drops._

_**Opera Buffa:** Hopefully you caught it in context, but an Opera Buffa is a **Comic Opera**. Originating from Italy, they were the complete opposite of the lofty, often tragic and oh so serious Opera Seria (which were very much created with the Classics-obsessed nobility in mind) - they usually depicted the every day trials of common folk, sometimes using the characters from the __Commedia dell'arte. Rossini's **The Barber of Seville** and of course Mozart's **Marriage of Figaro** are both examples of Opera Buffa. _:-)

_**Mercurialis perennis/"Dog's Mercury":**_ _This herb was mentioned in an earlier chapter where Irina prepares an analgesic (pain relieving) balm to help a woman suffering from severe menstrual pain. Topically, the juice from the plant is fine - but eating it is a definite no-no. It's HIGHLY poisonous - hence Irina worrying about one of her dogs getting hold of it. I mean, dog ownership is basically just asking "What have you eaten?" over and over and over again._


	23. Twenty-Three

Irina frowned as Vlad stepped from the shadows, wading into the moonlight that was pooling on the floorboards of the ballroom. He stood and stared at her as he took a moment to adjust his cuffs; the pale blue light illuminating only half of his face while the rest was left eerily in shadow.

"...I thought I told you to stay away," Irina sighed.

Vlad opened his hands, "And I obeyed for as long as I could, believe me," he told her, his gaze dropping from her riot of bed-tossed curls to the shining flesh across her collarbones and chest.

"_Obeyed!_ Oh please, you don't even obey your own rules let alone mine," she scoffed. "I once read that your kind had to ask permission to enter the home of a living human... and yet here you are," she drawled.

"Here I am."

"Who let you in?" Irina demanded.

Vlad made his way over to her – closing the gap between them step by step. He couldn't help grinning, in spite of his better judgment, "You did."

Irina narrowed her brown eyes.

"...You don't remember," he realised.

"Or you're lying," she countered. "Which of the two seems more likely given your history, do you think?"

Vlad continued pacing towards her, stepping in and out of the shadows. "It was the day you were lost in the forests near Avrig," he told her. "I awoke at dusk to the scent of your blood on the breeze, and so I came to find you."

"Your mouth salivating at the prospect of an easy meal, no doubt," Irina grumbled, feeling every muscle in her body tighten the closer he got. She knew he'd be able to sense it, and that angered her even more.

He shrugged his lips. "It would have been," he admitted as he came to a stop in front of her. His cold blue eyes drifted downwards to her silk dressing gown - to the lapels, and the way they were hanging open over her wispy, scooped chemise - giving a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts.

Irina felt her cheeks colour. She snatched the dressing gown shut; folding her arms across it for good measure.

Vlad's lips curled as he looked up and met her furious gaze. "...Anyway, after you fired a shot at me and then _demanded_ I escort you back to town… _you_ invited me in for a drink."

"Oh! Well, I didn't realise I was extending an open invitation! That _hardly_ seems fair!" she snapped.

Vlad nodded. "Open the door to the devil once and he'll expect to own the house."

Irina's jaw clenched. "Is that so?"

"I know that better than anyone," he replied, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

She looked away - he wouldn't have her sympathy. "So you think you _own_ me, do you-"

Vlad frowned, "Of course not-"

Irina spun away from him and stormed off. "...I suppose you've come to claim what's yours - come to claim that drink, have you?" she spat over her shoulder, throwing her curls with it. "Well, please! Don't feel as though you have to stand on ceremony and accord, Count – it didn't seem to stop you before – by all means, do help yourself!"

Vlad breathed heavily through his nostrils. He hated when she called him _'Count'_; he hated the way it sounded - so cold and unfamiliar. "_Irina_–"

She turned back to face him. "Oh no wait – that's right – I forgot," she interrupted, stabbing a finger at him, "you prefer your aperitif to be heated in its bottle before you partake… to be _stirred_, to arouse the flavour. Slips down the throat more easily, does it? Makes you feel like less of a monster?"

Vlad shifted his weight. He'd known she'd be angry and that simply getting her to listen would be a challenge, but he hadn't expected her to quite as sharp. She'd clearly spent plenty of time during their separation filing her anger towards him into a neat point - like a blade - and now she was eager to stab him with it and draw blood - enjoy watching it stain his pale skin. And yet, he couldn't help but admire the fire blazing in her eyes, and the way her hair bounced and tumbled around her severe gaze when she shouted at him _(...not to mention the way the moonlight was shining through that flimsy cotton chemise of hers, as translucent as smoke - illuminating the curves beneath it)_. He could hear her heart pounding like a war drum, feel the heat radiating from her skin like a stove, and when he remembered to take a breath he breathed in the scent of her skin – the smell of tobacco and roses – heady and luxurious.

He was silently furious with her – with _himself_; he hadn't been this turned on in weeks, and he actually flinched when she suddenly stomped towards him.

She grabbed a fistful of her own hair and swung it over her shoulder, revealing the long slope of her neck to the moonlight. "Well, swig away Count!" she sneered, glaring up at him though her lashes as she smoothed away the dark wisps and curls. "But I'm afraid you'll find me cold and corked this time."

Vlad's eyes settled on her bare neck; on that small patch of skin beneath her jaw that gently throbbed in time with her heartbeat. His mouth salivated; it would have been so easy to have her. To take what he wanted. No effort at all necessary to snatch her wrist and then reel her body into his – to coil around her small frame like a snake around the soft limbs of its prey. To remind her that she was _his_ and his alone for the taking. It had always been so easy to give into that beastly part of him that enjoyed the power and the thrill of being a predator. The effort was in controlling that beast - that hunger.

He frowned as he grabbed her shoulders and rattled her, "Damn it, Irina! I didn't come here to argue with you, I came to _warn_ you."

Irina wriggled free. She swatted his heavy hands away, "What are you talking about?"

"Your _fiancé_," he told her, waving his hand dismissively. "That upstart Hungarian Prince you've agreed to marry!"

"...What about him?" she sighed.

Vlad blinked at her. "…What about him?" he repeated, amazed by her apparent nonchalance. She didn't _actually_ care for the man, did she? "What do you mean, what about him! Irina, you can't marry him!"

She almost laughed. "…You think I _want_ to?" she replied. She gestured to the garlands hanging around them, "You think I submitted to this willingly? That I had a choice or even a say in the matter? I _didn't_–"

Vlad stepped closer, "There's _always_ a choice."

She scoffed, shaking her head. "Not for me there isn't. Not anymore," she told him. She couldn't believe he had the audacity to turn up _now_, after everything. _Now_, when it was too late! She shoved past him, "Not this time."

"Irina, I know you're upset, but you _have_ to listen to me–"

Irina swirled on the spot, "No! Actually, I don't," she barked. "You lost that privilege when you lied to me. Whatever you've come here to say to me, Vlad – whatever apology you've a mind to make, or romantic intentions you think will fix this – none of it is going to be enough to–"

"Oh will you just shut up and listen to me for _one_ minute, you infuriating woman?" he snarled through gritted teeth, throttling the air with his hands. He could feel his patience wearing as thin as a parlour rug.

Irina gaped. "…_I'm_ infuriating? How–"

"_Incredibly_ so," he informed her. "And I hate to disappoint, Duchess, but I didn't come here with an apology. And as for my romantic intentions – as you so _nauseatingly_ called them – I'm afraid they'll have to wait."

She tutted and pursed her lips.

Vlad sighed loudly as he pinched the bridge of his nose, "Although honestly, all the while you _persist_ in interrupting me and behaving like a child, I'm beginning to reconsider them entirely."

Irina snapped her mouth shut. She sent him a sour look as she folded her arms. "...Well, good."

Vlad softened his tone, "Look, in spite of what you think, Irina, I care about you," he told her. "I came here to stop you from making a terrible–"

Irina cackled, "You _care_ about me?"

He reached for her, "Of course I do – you _know_ I do."

She stepped away from his hands. "Do I? Where were you when my father died, Vlad?" she asked. "Where were you when they took all of my books and my microscope away – when they _burned_ all my medicines on a bonfire in the courtyard? My God, the smell of it must have carried for miles! Where were you _then_, hm?"

Vlad tensed as he stepped after her – he felt something deep inside ache for her, "Irina, you must believe me, I didn't know–"

"Where were you when the Empress – my own godmother, the woman my father devoted his whole life to serving – turned her back on me? When she abandoned me to make a choice between burning with my books or marrying that… that Hungarian _foitrottl_!? Was that _caring_ for me?"

Vlad stole a calming breath. She was right; he lowered his voice and gave a sad shake of his head, "Irina. _Iubita mea_. I didn't know. I barely found out an hour ago."

Irina felt her eyes sting as she nodded spitefully. "Of course you did. Quelle surprise. After all, nothing penetrates the walls of Poenari - _nothing_. Not the wind, not the Turks... not even news of the one person you claim to care about," she accused. "But then that's the point, isn't it? As long as _you're_ safe within those walls then nothing else matters, does it? _No one _else matters!"

"You told me to stay away!" Vlad roared.

"From _me_! I told you to stay away from _me_, Vlad," she roared back - glancing briefly at the doors when she panicked that the sound of their argument would carry through the palace and wake the servants. Thankfully, they were all fast asleep in the attic. "And anyway, why should that stop you from taking an interest in what's been happening to your home – your _kingdom - _as you so fondly call it! To _your_ people?"

He bared his teeth as he battled the urge to grab her, to _make_ her listen to him. But all the while she was lobbing truths at him like hard stones it was difficult to argue with her - to fight back.

She lowered her voice and shook her head. "Why didn't you tell me who you were - right from the beginning?" she asked. "Why I should believe _anything_ you have to say to me now?"

Vlad shrugged. "How could I _possibly_ have told you, Irina?" he asked her softly, _honestly_.

"Oh I don't know, Vlad – with _words_, perhaps?" she suggested, sweeping his excuse away with a flick of her hand.

He sent her warning glance as he snatched her wrist out of the air. "Irina."

She pulled, "Let _go_."

"_Iubita mea_–"

"Stop calling me that–"

"–You _have_ to understand; I never expected to see you again – certainly not _here_," he explained as he gently tried to pull her towards him - to touch her, to hold her. "…And then, when you didn't recognise me, I–"

"You saw an opportunity," Irina snapped as she pulled back against his grip like an animal caught in a snare.

"_No_," Vlad insisted quickly with an offended look. But then he thought about it and changed his mind. "Well, alright, _yes_ – at first, but then–"

Irina snorted; she turned away. "You lured me in – made me think that you cared about me – all the while biding your time, waiting for the right moment to spring your trap and–"

"_Please_. If my intentions were purely physical, do you _really_ think I would have bothered drawing the inevitable out - inviting you to my home, telling you who I really was?" he countered. "I could have had you the night you arrived and you know it."

She sneered at him. "And I suppose such gallant act of restraint is supposed to impress me-"

"The truth is, I came to _know_ you," he insisted. "I came to know the woman _behind_ the mask and–"

"Oh! You mean you found out that your food had feelings! Oh, how difficult that must have been for you!" she pouted. She shoved at his chest and scowled, "Pathetic!"

Vlad growled. He raked a weary hand through his dark waves; he was far too old for this. He should have walked - _sprinted _\- away and had done with it all, with _her_. Why couldn't he just leave? After all, he'd let her go once before.

Irina staggered backwards – betrayal swimming in her brown eyes. "…You may have lied your way into stealing a glimpse beneath my mask, but _you_ never took yours off, Count – _that's_ the problem!"

Vlad stewed silently - the tips of his fingers biting into his palms. He watched as she snapped her fingers at her dog and then thundered off towards the ballroom doors - the tail of her silk dressing gown drifting behind her like laundry caught in a breeze. She was walking away from him, walking away from _everything_. And he was so frustrated with her that he was almost ready to allow it.

_Almost_.

He called out her from the shadows just as the door opened and Folie went bounding out into the hallway. "…On the contrary, Eos; I know you _intimately_."

Irina paused – her fingers slipping from the silver handles. "…_Please_ just let me go," she muttered, still facing the doorway.

"The curious thing about masks, _iubita mea_, is that while they might conceal one's identity, they do very little to mask what lurks beneath the skin," he informed her. "If anything, they _exaggerate_ it. And mask or not, I know you better than you even know yourself."

Irina shut the doors neatly and then turned to face him. "Oh stop it. I'm done playing that game with you," she snapped. "In fact it's not even a game, it's a dissection; you pick people apart – debone them like fish – and then claim to know everything about them! Well you don't–!"

Vlad ignored her protests. "Just admit it; you were more yourself that night – more at home in that seedy gaming house than you ever have been in any Imperial ball or banquet. I'm talking to the girl who took a risk and goaded a stranger into stealing her mother's pearls, not the one who cried thief when they did _exactly_ as she asked," he asserted as he strolled in and out of the shadows - advancing towards her. "I'm talking about the woman who flirts with her own darkness - dances with it without shame – not the one who refuses to succumb to it because she's _afraid_. Afraid of what a handful of insignificants will think of her if she does."

Irina stared at him.

He stopped a couple of steps away from her. "...Did you _really_ weep when they took away your books? When they boxed up your microscope? Hm?" he asked her. "...Or did you breathe a sigh of relief?"

Irina was astounded by his cruel words. "I'm warning you Vlad, you're a poorly chosen word away from me wrenching this door handle off and embedding it in your chest–!"

"Oh, come now, be honest! Be honest with me – be honest with yourself!" he went on, gesturing wildly to the empty room - as if there was an invisible audience watching them. "…I bet there was some part of you that was relieved, wasn't there? _Relieved_ that they'd taken away your choice – removed the burden of having one in the first place! Wouldn't life be so much simpler without that nagging temptation? Hm? That desperate longing to be something _more_ than just a Duchess, or a wife?"

Irina panted; she couldn't remember the last time she'd been so angry. And yet, she couldn't deny the truth hiding behind such cruel words. "I've absolutely no interest in hiding in the shadows as you do!"

"And so you'd rather perish in the light?" Vlad countered, his dark eyebrows bouncing. "...Simply to satisfy everyone else?"

Irina gasped when all of a sudden he was right _t__here_ – standing right in front of her and challenging her with those piercing, penetrating blue eyes of his. She held her breath when he stole another step and loomed closer – invading her space totally. He'd backed her into the doors until she felt the cold, hard wood kiss her spine.

Vlad waited for her to respond; his gaze gamboling from her eyes to her lips and back again. "...Well?"

She lifted her gaze from his dark, velvet waistcoat. "It's called being a woman," she told him with a sad little shrug. "You wouldn't understand."

"…Or a coward," he countered.

"You dare to lecture _me_ on being a coward?" she replied as she reached back and blindly futzed with the door handles, desperate to escape. "_You're_ the one hiding away from the world, Vlad! Not me!"

Vlad reached out and slapped his palm against the door - forcing it shut.

Irina frowned. She glanced at the hand planted beside her head and then slowly followed the dark sleeve of his coat, up his arm until her eyes finally met his. "...Vlad," she pleaded with a pained look. "I can't. I can't do this anymore."

He hung his head over hers and sighed. "...You're right."

Irina blinked up at him, his face hovering so close that she could feel his dark hair brushing her forehead.

"...You're right," he repeated, nodding. "I _have_ been hiding. I've been trying to convince myself for a long time that the reason I shut myself away from the world is to protect it. To protect it from who I am, and from what I am. From what I could do to it. But the truth is... the truth is that I do it to protect myself." He looked at her. "A truth that I was perfectly happy pretending to be ignorant of until you came along and reminded me of it. Until you came to Poenari and you were suddenly right there, sitting at that damned harpsichord."

Irina folded her arms.

"...For the first time in a long time, I realised that I might not want to be alone anymore," he admitted.

Irina looked up at him and was surprised when she noticed a kind of calmness wash over his features at the sound of his own words – much like the silence between waves crashing the shoreline during a great storm. It occurred to her that living alone, he probably never heard his own thoughts out loud.

Vlad clenched his hand into fist against the door. "I've been trying to understand who I am in this new world – what my place is," he told her. "I know I can't go back to who I was; I know it's useless to dwell on the past - particularly for someone like me – but I can't quite see a way forward either. _Couldn't _see a way forward."

"...And now?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

Vlad held her gaze - swimming in those murky, mysterious eyes of hers. "…Just answer me this. What would you do if you weren't afraid? If you weren't afraid of ridicule, or of loneliness, or of losing everything and everyone?" he asked her. "…Who would you be if you weren't afraid of _yourself_?"

She met his gaze slowly. "I think those are questions that we both need to answer."

"...Alright, then who would we _both_ be, if we weren't afraid of being ourselves?" he corrected. "If we stopped fighting who we really are? Stopped hiding under our masks?"

Irina considered his words.

Vlad tilted his head. "_Irina_… you could be so much more than what they want you to be – you _are_ so much more," he insisted, his eyes joining her freckles as he lifted his hand from the door and reached out to touch her face.

Irina closed her eyes, awaiting his touch.

Vlad clenched his fist - changing his mind as he dropped it by his side, shifting his boots awkwardly.

She released a shaky breath and opened her eyes; she was so tired of fighting the world, fighting herself – fighting _him_. "…Vlad–"

"You're more wolf than woman," he whispered, stooping a little to catch her gaze. "Just imagine how fearsome you'd be if you weren't so afraid to show your teeth. To put your heart between them. To _feast_ upon life..."

He watched her chest rise and fall - once, twice - watched her eyes sink to his lips. And then he snaked his arm around her waist and kissed her.

* * *

** _Historical/Language Notes:_ **

_**Foitrottl:** Austrian, "_ _Idiot"_

_**"To put your heart between your teeth":** A curious Romanian expression which means being brave._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I know. That cliffhanger puts me in really good stead for scooping that Dick of the Year award. ;-)


	24. Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you've noticed the rating change. ;-)

Rendered powerless by such an onslaught, Irina fell back against the door as if she'd been struck by a gale gusting out of nowhere; Vlad's touch a cool caress against her skin, tearing into her hair and tugging at her clothes. It was a punishing kiss, meant to silence and to smother any breath of argument left in her lungs, and after a moment – after every muscle in her body had tightened, ready to stand strong and fight it – she let go and finally allowed herself to be swept away by it.

When he suddenly pulled back, she chased his lips.

Vlad frowned as he held her face. "…Forgive me," he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers.

Irina's eyes flashed upwards; she had a feeling that he rarely spoke such words.

"…For everything," he added, his gaze nervously meeting hers.

Irina's lips curled. "…I thought you didn't come to apologise," she reminded him. "I'm almost disappointed."

Vlad groaned softly and rolled his blue eyes. "You seem to draw good manners out of me whether I like it or not," he replied, his thumbs tracing soft circles over her freckles. "…And yet, I'm never more eager to forget them than when I'm around you."

Her gaze flashed curiously – flitting between the soft halo of wrinkles around his eyes to his lips.

Vlad hesitated. "It's… _unnerving_," he added, awkwardly swallowing down the taste of the words as soon as he'd said them.

"…You made me forget _my_ manners first," Irina reminded him with a smirk.

Vlad chuckled softly, enjoying the spark of mischief in her eyes. "So I did."

She held his gaze. "…You say you don't know who you are anymore," she said as she reached up and held onto his wrists, "but _I_ do. I know you, just as well as you know me. And I'm not going to let you forget who you are."

Vlad eyed her intensely – his hands dropping to her waist, fisting the thin wisps of silk and cotton shrouding her body. "…We know each other," he corrected with a nod.

Irina smiled as she rose up to taste his lips again. "…You draw the darkness out of me," she realised out loud, "just as I draw out the dawn lurking inside you."

At her words Vlad stooped and caught her lips, kissing her as if she'd disappear into thin air if he didn't. The doors shuddered on their hinges as he pressed her back into them – trapping her, holding her there. And yet, he worried that she'd evaporate beneath his fingertips without warning if he blinked or let go; so his hands roamed covetously – slipping under her dressing gown and smoothing over her body from her backside to her shoulder blades – desperate to memorise every curve.

When he grabbed a fistful of her tumbling curls and tugged downwards – baring her throat – Irina gasped and opened her eyes to him.

"…No running this time," Vlad warned her, his breath hot against her skin.

When his lips grazed her skin, Irina sighed. _As if I could_, she thought to herself, shuddering as he kissed a slow path down her neck and lapped at her clavicles. As if she _wanted_ to; she needed him – needed _this_. The memory of their brief moment together all those years ago burned brightly in the back of her mind. She was desperate to fully savour what she'd sampled; she was wet and aching and he'd barely touched her.

And yet, when he pulled her body close her mind still frantically fished around for some excuse to push him away. But to her own surprise – for the first time – she came up empty. Where was she going to run to? To Prince Lupesci? To Vienna? She had nothing to protect anymore – no one to answer to, only herself. With all those nagging doubts and concerns finally silenced, Irina realised that she could finally give in to herself – give in to who she was and what she wanted most. And when Vlad smoothed his palms under the silk lapels of her dressing gown – sweeping it over her shoulders and down her arms – Irina felt the part of herself that she'd locked away fluttering under her ribs, like an impatient prisoner testing the bars of a cell – a butterfly splitting from its chrysalis, tearing to get out.

"I'm not going anywhere," she promised with heavy eyes as she shrugged out of the dressing gown and allowed it to pool around her toes.

Vlad surged over her – his hands gliding up her curves. "I'm going to make sure of it," he rasped, nipping at her collarbone.

Irina wriggled impatiently as he dragged the neckline of her chemise down over her shoulders – biting her lip when she noticed his gaze darken as he slowly bared her body to the moonlight. She knew that a restless, pottering maid or a footman stumbling in drunk from a drinking den could have walked in at any moment, and yet, she didn't seem to care; in fact she basked in the thrill of it – moaning when Vlad finally filled his hands with her bare flesh.

"…The only place you'll be running to after tonight is my bed," he told her, kissing her hungrily. He nipped at her lower lip and grinned when she moaned. "In fact… you won't want to leave it."

Irina raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps one day I'll actually make it there," she purred as she untangled her arms from her chemise.

"…Oh you will," Vlad replied as he shoved the scrap of cotton down to her waist. "And once you arrive there, you'll never want to leave."

He glanced down her body; his fevered gaze following his own hand as it slowly climbed her ribs and cupped her breast. When he teased his thumb across the puckered tip and watched as she released a shaky breath and arched into his touch, he growled.

Of the many regrets that had lingered on after she'd abandoned him that night in Vienna all those years ago, the one that had perhaps tormented him the most was that he hadn't actually seen her body – that he hadn't had the pleasure of feeling its warmth against his. He'd been left to imagine her out of the gowns that she wore; left to wonder what he'd missed out on under the volumes of skirts and caging, and beneath the satin bodices that clung to her curves like a second skin. His imagination had risen to the challenge – of course – but casting his eyes _finally_ upon the real thing was beyond what he'd envisaged, and he felt his cock harden instantly at the sight.

She was all small, sharp bones and sloping curves, with soft, pink flesh as sumptuous as the fabrics she chose to wear – and she was warm, _so_ _warm_. And when he felt her heart pounding under her breast within the palm of his hand, he gulped at the thought of holding something so valuable.

He'd come to _warn_ her not to seduce her, he reminded himself as he shrugged out of his coat and kissed her – slow and deep. But the thought never seemed to reach his grasping hands; they drifted of their own accord from her breasts to her hips, shoving the rest of the cotton chemise down her thighs until it landed with the puddle of clothes between their feet.

He followed its path south with his lips; they travelled slowly – exploring her body – gently mouthing the upward curve of her breast and teasing the nipple between his teeth before scaling her ribs one by one. He trailed his tongue over the rounded flesh of her navel – sinking lower and lower – glancing upwards now and then to catch her heated gaze – pausing only when he found himself kneeling right in front of her.

Vlad held her gaze as he reached up and cupped her backside, drawing her hips away from the doors. His eyes were swimming with mischief as he lifted her leg up and anchored it over his shoulder – her foot dangling over his back.

Irina fumbled for the door handle, gripping it tightly as she watched him kiss a path along the inside of her thigh – drawing further and further away from her knee, higher and higher – until those smirking lips of his found their way to the swollen folds of her sex. And when she felt them brush purposefully against her – kissing her, tasting her with the occasional teasing flick of his tongue – her breathing stalled and her toes curled.

She'd read a book about it once _(although book was perhaps far too lofty a word for that filthy lump of wood pulp of words and engravings that she'd tucked into the back of an old history book)_. She'd read it repeatedly but had always doubted whether men were so inclined _off_ the page. Growing up she'd learned never to expect such intimacy from men – and certainly not from her future husband – and yet, when she felt Vlad's mouth close over her fully she decided that she was going to need to reconsider the meaning of that word. She gulped when his tongue swirled around her opening, and when he tilled the tip inside her she barely recognised the strangled cry she made as her own.

When she rolled her hips impatiently, Vlad released a muffled chuckle and gripped them tightly – pinning her in place. "Patience," he warned her pulling back slightly – teasing her.

As he nipped and licked his way along the tops of her thighs, he could feel the blood pulsing against his lips. How tempting it was to bite into that soft flesh and feel it give way like a ripe peach. The temptation to finally taste what he'd longed for was strong – he ached for it, was hard for it – but he didn't. Instead, he returned his lips to her core – dragging his tongue along her slit. And when she fisted his hair and moaned in relief of his touch, he was resolved never to take from her again.

Irina squirmed, digging her heel into his back and struggling to breathe when Vlad's tongue finally swept upwards, moving higher until it traced lightly over her clit. She felt her whole body flush and was almost embarrassed by how easily she came apart under his touch. "You're too… _too_ good at this," she whined – quickly realising that three hundred years practice would probably make an expert out of anyone.

Vlad grinned against her as he upped his pace, coaxing her on.

She bucked her hips to chase his touch, chase her own pleasure – revelling in the feel of his facial hair brushing against her thighs, the pressure of his lips and of his fingers pinching into her hips. She panted and dug her fingers into the grain of the door, feeling herself climbing higher and higher with each breath – each torturous flick of his tongue – and then, he sucked down hard on her clit and she stumbled over the edge – falling apart with quaking thighs and curling toes.

Vlad lapped at her through each spasm – each flutter – until she released a heavy sigh and sagged against the doors.

She'd barely taken two long breaths when he sprung to his feet and loomed over, holding her up by her waist and seizing her open lips with a kiss.

His fingers traced her bare silhouette for barely a moment before she suddenly spun in his grasp and turned her back to him. He watched as she swept the long tail of curls away from her neck and then planted her hands on the door.

Irina eyed him coquettishly from over her shoulder. "Now… about that drink I promised you," she purred.

Vlad's lips curled as he snaked his arms around her waist and pressed his body against hers.

She closed her eyes as he pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck; she could feel him, hard against her backside. "I'm no expert, of course, but I think the bottle's been sufficiently warmed…"

Vlad's hands glided up and over her breasts – his fingers teasing the puckered tips – as his lips traversed the length of her neck, searching for that spot just below her jaw, where the skin was gently throbbing over her pulse. He groaned when he found it, popping his fangs and inhaling the heady scent of her skin.

But then he stopped.

Vlad spun her to face him. "…Not quite," he replied, right before he scooped her up in his arms – locking her legs around his back.

He walked her through the dark over to a long table pushed up against the fading forest mural, where – in barely a few hours – the bread and wine would be laid out for the wedding guests. He set her down with a wolfish grin and a kiss, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

Irina moved swiftly to help him; she was desperate to finally feel his skin against hers. Her fingers fumbled over the buttons of his velvet waistcoat until it finally fell away and dropped to the floor around his boots. She tugged his shirt from the waistline of his breeches and walked her fingertips across the flat plain of his stomach – gingerly tracing the hard grooves and muscles there. She was surprised to find that his flesh wasn't cold, but instead tepid – a clammy, feverish skin hiding a simmering warmth beneath it.

Vlad pulled his shirt over his head, bundled it and then tossed it to the side, enjoying her wide-eyed, smirking look of approval at his toned flesh.

Irina didn't just approve, she _ached_ at the sight of him – and yet when she noticed his smug expression, she tutted and rolled her brown eyes. "…Hideous," she teased as she hooked a finger into the waistband of his breeches and pulled him towards her, bracketing his hips with her thighs and pressing her lips against his.

"Behave," Vlad warned, raising a dark eyebrow as he quickly undid his breeches. "Or I'll forget my manners."

Irina leaned back on her hands, her gaze drifting between their bodies – chewing her lip when he removed his cock and took it in hand. "In that case," she said, before slapping him hard across the cheek.

Vlad grabbed her hips and roughly pulled her to the edge of the table.

Irina's soft snigger quickly turned into a moan when she suddenly felt him hard and huge between her thighs – her fingers gripping the table.

"…Minx," Vlad teased as he hitched her thigh over his hip and then surged forward, filling her with one focused thrust. He growled as he felt her warm, wet flesh engulfed him fully.

Irina threw her head back as he settled himself inside of her. Her whole body prickled from the feel of him and she inwardly cursed herself for denying herself such a thing for so long. She opened up her thighs and released a sound halfway between a sigh and a moan when he began to move – rocking slowly back and forth – and decided that there'd never be day going forward where she wouldn't crave this – crave _him_.

Vlad leaned over the table, holding her body against his – enjoying the way her breasts brushed up against him as he thrust into her at a leisurely, lazy pace. There was no rush, no race to finish this time; he dragged out every thrust as if it were the first and closely watching the reaction drawn from her each time. He stooped to catch her panting mouth, kissed her arching breasts and groaned when he felt her hips rise eagerly to meet his thrusts.

And so, they danced in the darkness of the empty ballroom with nothing but the moonlight for company – bounding in each other's arms to a lively gavotte, taking it in turns to lead. When Irina's arms tired and she sprawled backwards – reclining over the surface of the table – Vlad lifted her hips and picked up the pace, mourning the loss of her warm body against his but unable to resist the way her breasts bounced with each thrust. And when she shut her eyes and moaned his name, he thought he'd come right there and then.

Instead, he leaned down over her – re-positioning her leg over his arm as he began pumping into her with purpose – his hand reaching between them and seeking out her clitoris, his nimble fingers working her – pushing her.

She clung onto him – wrapping an arm around his neck as she felt the first flutters of an impending orgasm. "…Vlad," she moaned, rolling her hips like the tide.

"Come – come for me," he commanded as he rolled his thumb and sent her spiraling, shuddering beneath him.

He rode out each wave – his pace stumbling as he followed her, saying her name into the crook of her neck with a stuttered groan as he spilled inside her. And when she sent him a breathless look and arched her neck, he popped his fangs and bit down – feeling her whole body become rigid in his arms. The taste of her blood was warm and familiar; that same bittersweet and smoky nectar he'd been chasing after for so long – mellowed and aged slightly from before.

He drank from her until she became limp, and then collapsed on top of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Don't get too comfy, reader. There's still a Vampire AND a poisoner on the loose, as well as the matter of an impeding wedding and coup... oh, and a prostitute demanding Vlad make her a Vampire. So... yeah. I'm mostly listing all these things to remind me of all the loose ends I've yet to tie up. *sigh* writing is hard, you guys. But hey, finish line's in sight.


	25. Twenty-Five

"When you've lived for hundreds of years, it's easy to become bored and disillusioned with all the things that used to surprise and interest you," Vlad panted. "You outgrow almost every pleasure – just as a child outgrows their toys…"

He was lying flat on the ballroom floor on top of a bundle of his clothes - swathes of black velvet - his muscled arms tucked behind his head as he gazed wistfully up at the ceiling.

"…But _that_," he said as he glanced down at Irina – nestled up against his chest, "I could live for a thousand years and still never be bored of doing that."

Irina leaned up, her long hair hanging over her breasts. She tucked a few strands behind her ear and smirked down at him, "Bored, no. Exhausted? Yes," she said. She winced slightly when her fingers grazed the bite marks on her neck, "No wonder you sleep all day."

Vlad frowned as he reached out and cupped her neck, gently sweeping his thumb across the small, slightly raw-looking puncture wounds just below her jaw. "…Sore?" he asked.

She turned her head and kissed the knuckles. "Nothing that a bit of yarrow won't sort," she said with slight shrug. "Although, in future I'd rather you chose a more discreet artery."

"…In future?" Vlad replied, sitting up.

Irina placed a hand on his chest. "If you're lucky."

He leaned into her as he swept his hand slowly up her thigh, "Well, my preferred artery is actually right... _here_," he whispered against her lips as his thumb brushed along the femoral artery.

Irina sighed – feeling her body warm immediately beneath his touch. She closed her eyes as his hand moved higher, "Mm. That's certainly preferable."

"Mm," he replied as he teased her with his lips – brushing them against hers for an all too brief and maddening moment, and then pulling away.

She frowned suddenly, wrinkling her nose. "...This is perhaps a silly question, but am I going to-"

"No, iubita mea," he replied, "You'd have to drink _my_ blood for that to happen."

"Oh," she whispered, feeling sheepish. "...How much?"

"Barely a drop," he said. He raised an eyebrow, "It's potent."

Irina shrugged her lips and thought about it; the physician inside her unable to help herself from pondering how it all worked. "...Fascinating," she said, as she rested her arms on across her bent knees. "I'd love to understand the biology behind it."

"...I'm not sure that it's supposed to be understood," he replied.

"...So," she said with a grin, "did you _really_ come here to warn me, or was that all just an elaborate ruse?"

Vlad's eyebrows pinched; he swiped his hand across his jaw.

"…What?" Irina asked him. She scoffed and smiled, "It's alright if it was, I'm not angry."

He took her hand and brought it to his lips – holding it there for a moment as he searched for the words to explain. "Iubita mea," he whispered against her knuckles, "I need to tell you something."

"What?"

He looked down at her hand, playing with her fingers as he spoke, "I should have told you before – _right away_ – but as usual, you distracted me–"

"So, tell me now," she insisted softly, tilting her head as she tried to force his eyes to meet her own. "Start at the beginning."

He looked up and then nodded. "Irina, when you and your father first arrived here, you came with very little understanding of this place, and of the war you were blindly walking into. A war that's been simmering here for _centuries_ and now – unfortunately – seems to have reached the point of boiling over."

"War? _What_ war?"

Vlad shrugged, "The war for sovereignty over this place," he replied. "The Hungarians, the Habsburgs, the peasants – even the serfs – they all believe that _they_ – above all others – have the right to rule Transylvania."

Irina snorted and rolled her eyes; this wasn't news. "Why do you think I didn't want to come here in the first place?" she told him as she smoothed her hair. "Come on. _Everyone_ – even the Empress – knows that the Hungarians would rather go it alone. That's hardly a secret, Vlad; that's why she sent my father in the first place. With his wealth of experience, she was hoping that he'd be able to - you know - smooth things over–"

"And look how well that went," Vlad remarked without missing a beat, his eyes following her hands as her fingers combed through her curls.

Irina pulled back – angered by his words. "I might remind you that he'd been here barely two months before he died – not to mention the fact that he was sick for most of that time," she snapped. "Real reform takes time; don't you _dare_ try to lay the blame at his feet–"

Vlad reached out and wrapped an arm around her bent legs, "I'm not. I'm _not_," he told her, smoothing his hand up and down her thigh. "What I'm _trying_ to tell you, Irina, is that the cards were stacked against him from the start. Against _both_ of you. Your father – I'm sure - would have made a fine Governor if he'd ever had the chance to _truly_ affect change here, but the Hungarian nobility were _never_ going to allow him that opportunity, iubita mea – and I think you know that."

Irina shrugged. "…I suppose," she replied with a sad little nod.

"_Look_, here in Transylvania, Habsburg Governors – even the best ones – come and go with the seasons," Vlad went on. "…And some under _very_ mysterious circumstances, it has to be said."

Irina blinked at him, "_Mysterious_? Why do you say that?"

Vlad raised a dark eyebrow. "Do you _really_ think the previous Governor's death was caused by a hunting accident?"

Irina was alarmed. "…You think he was murdered?"

Suddenly she couldn't shake the horrible feeling that perhaps there was something more sinister at play in her own father's death. He'd been ill _long_ before their arrival in Hermannstadt, of course, but his decline had been unpredictably swift. _Too_ swift. And in those final days, mysterious symptoms seemed to appear that didn't seem to align with his underlying illness.

"…But, murdered by whom?" Irina asked.

Vlad lay back, leaning on his elbows. "There's a group of Hungarian nobles – they call themselves The Carpathian Conclave," he explained, rolling his blue eyes. "They've been around for almost as long as I have – although I hadn't heard the name uttered in over a century and so I foolishly assumed them to be extinct."

"Who – what are they?"

"They're descendants of the same group of nobles who burned Poenari to the ground," Vlad replied.

"_Oh_."

"In the beginning they came together simply to meddle in church cases where their lands were being threatened by cases of suspected vampires and witches that were causing unrest among the peasants and serfs. But _now_?" he tutted. "Now it seems that they've found a slightly more ambitious cause to throw their misguided views and money behind."

"And what cause would that be?" Irina asked.

Vlad looked her. "They want to overthrow Austrian rule."

Irina almost laughed. "You're not serious."

"They've a coup planned, Irina," he informed her without an ounce of humour. "And from what I'm told, it's not exactly in its infancy. Quite the contrary, in fact."

She inhaled slowly. "…And you think my future husband is at its helm."

"…It would appear so," Vlad replied with a slow and serious nod. "I do hope you're planning on reconsidering that match, by the way."

Irina tried to swallow the uncomfortable lump forming in the back of her throat – anger rising there like bile. "Vlad, do you think...? Surely you're not..." She took a breath. "Could he have murdered my father?"

Vlad hesitated. "I don't know. But he wants to become _King_, Irina. King of Transylvania," he told her, his lips twisting at the thought of a Hungarian sitting on _his_ throne. "And by the sound of it, he'll do whatever it takes to achieve that aim. Your father was certainly an obstacle."

Irina threw a hand to her head. "…My God."

Was it even possible? It was hardly a secret that she'd never warmed to Prince Lupesci let alone trusted him, and while she knew full well that he'd been letting himself into her father's study in the weeks before his death – writing letters, signing papers – she'd never seen him venture upstairs in that time. She and Fiebe alone had nursed the Duke in his final weeks – no one else had been allowed into his room and most of the household staff had steered clear, concerned that he might be contagious. She wondered how the prince could have possibly pulled it off without being seen. She needed to know the truth.

"He's been using you, iubita mea," Vlad warned as he reached for her – sweeping the hair from her face and gently cupping her cheek. "He's been using the murders of those serfs and the attacks to stir up resentment among the peasants. Playing on all their old superstitions and fears, all the while drawing attention to the incompetence of the Habsburg regime – funneling the blame onto a sick Governor and his wild and wayward daughter." He waved his hand, "He's going to use that momentum to stage a coup. I don't know when or how, but–"

"You mean to tell me he plans to take on the Imperial army with little more than the local militia and a rabble of serfs?" Irina scoffed. "That's idiotic, even for him."

Vlad shrugged his lips. "Well, as powerful as the Conclave believe themselves to be, they _need_ a willing army," he warned. "And fear is quite effective when it comes to mobilizing the masses, Irina. _Believe_ me; I would know. It's possible he's secretly garnered support from Hungary."

"When?" she asked. "When is he planning to do this? _How_?"

Vlad shrugged, "I don't know."

Irina rested her chin on her shoulder for a moment. Her eyes suddenly flashed, "Perhaps we can find out."

Vlad watched as she stood up and padded naked across the ballroom to the doors – his confused gaze dropping hungrily to her curves and smooth, pale skin – illuminated by the moonlight. "…What are you doing?" he asked as he watched her scoop up her chemise and dressing gown.

She threw them on quickly. "Get dressed and come with me."

Intrigued, he immediately did as he was told – dressing in a flash and then joining her at the ballroom doors.

Outside Irina found the hallway just as dark and as quiet as it had been before, with the addition of Folie – as well as Scapino – snoozing just beside the door. Folie lifted her head and trotted over excitedly as soon as her mistress appeared, with Scapino following sleepily behind. She gave them both a soft pat each before crossing the hallway – heading for the door leading to her father's study.

Vlad smiled as the dogs came to greet him. "…You have two?" he whispered in surprise.

"…Scapino belonged to my father," Irina replied quietly over her shoulder as she reached out and grasped the door handle. She pulled down and pushed, but the door simply rattled in place. "Locked. _Damn_."

Vlad appeared beside her.

"Prince Lupesci has been using papa's study for past few weeks," she explained. "If we could just get inside then we might find-"

Vlad nodded, "Allow me," he said as he calmly steered her aside.

Irina watched as he gripped the door handle firmly in one hand and then planted the other on the door frame. He grimaced as he wrenched the handle and pushed; the door crunched, then swung inwards – the dogs bounding through the gap and into the room.

Vlad leaned against the door frame and smirked. "…Ladies first," he whispered, gesturing to the open door.

Irina briefly raised an eyebrow at the bent brass bolt within the door, then swept inside. "…Thank you."

She hurried over to her father's vast mahogany desk and the piles of paperwork covering it – piles of letters and documents that Prince Lupesci had been working on since sliding into the role of Governor. She rummaged through the papers like a squirrel rummaging through piles of leaves – desperately hoping to find a gleaming and glossy nut buried beneath them.

Vlad strolled inside the study. "…What are you looking for?" he asked as he fixed the door and then shut it.

Irina shook her head. "I don't know," she replied as she lifted up a map of Hermannstadt and the surrounding countryside and mountains, hoping there might be something lurking under it. "Something. _Anything_? Some proof of what he's planning to do? And when he's planning to do it? I have to do _something_ – I have to warn the Empress–"

Vlad approached the desk. "Irina, the woman abandoned you," he reminded her. "You don't owe her anything."

Irina's hands paused over the paperwork. "It's not about her," she explained as she started sifting through a new pile. "This is about the serfs, and the innocent peasants who are going to die because some self-entitled arschgeige has to prove that he's better than everyone else! _Just_ because his - who cares however many times - great grandfather wore a crown doesn't mean that _he_ should–"

"What? What are you talking about?" Vlad interrupted.

Irina set her hands on the table. She sent him a confused look, "Vlad. Prince Lupesci is descended from that Hungarian King you told me about. The one who stripped you of your throne and locked you away..."

Vlad stared at her.

She carried on scanning through the paperwork, "He brags about it _constantly_ – that his family were responsible for driving you out."

He wiped a hand across his mouth and then raked it through his hair. "I don't care," he told her as he suddenly rushed to the other side of the desk. He took her hands, "Irina, I don't care. He'll be dead soon enough if he's that crazy enough to take on the Imperial army."

Irina blinked at him; how could he _not_ care? "But–"

Vlad grabbed her arms and pulled her towards him. "Irina, leave the mortals to their madness; come with me - come to Poenari with me tonight."

She looked at him, amazed by his ability to distance himself from everything that was going on. But then that had been his modus operandi for centuries - distancing himself from all humanity.

"Or Vienna, I don't care," he insisted. "We'll go _wherever_ you want – just name the place. As long as you come with me and leave this chaos to run its course."

Irina stared back at him for a moment as she seriously considered doing what he'd suggested. But then, she thought of her father. "...I can't," she realised out loud.

Vlad hung his head and sighed. "Irina–"

She reached for his face – brushing her fingers through the fine dark hair growing along his jaw. She made him look at her. "I'm _yours_," she told him. "But this man might have killed my father – and now he's going to force innocent people – _your_ people – into a war simply to bolster his own ego? No." She turned back to the desk, "I can't just walk away and allow to get away with that – I _won't_."

Vlad watched as she started on the draws – desperate to find something incriminating to help her cause. She rummaged furiously – pulling the whole drawer and plonking it on the surface of the desk.

"Iubita mea-"

"You said that you didn't know what your purpose was anymore," Irina told him as she flicked through the paperwork lining the bottom of the drawer. "That you could never travel too far without those mountains out there calling you home," she added, pointing to the window.

Vlad glanced out of the window into the darkness – casting his gaze over the rooftops and towards the horizon and the snow-capped spine of mountains that hadn't changed in centuries. They'd been the one constant – while the people and the buildings and the fashions had changed, those mountains had been his one conduit to the old life and the old ways, grounding him and reminding him of who he was.

Irina pulled out a piece of parchment and nodded. "…Well, _this_ is your purpose, Vlad," she said. "This is _your_ kingdom; those are _your_ people. You can't keep turning you back on it all."

Vlad pulled away from the window and looked at her. "What do you expect me to do, Irina?" he asked, throwing his hands up. "Become governor myself? How would that work when I can only move at night?"

"You'd find a way," she suggested. "If you were brave enough to surround yourself with trustworthy people with the same beliefs and mindset as yours then... yes, I think you could rule this place. You _know_ you could do it."

He stared at her.

"But if you won't do that then _please_, at the very least help me stop this. For me? You _know_ it's the right thing to do," she pleaded, and – almost instantly – he had little choice but to agree.

Together they emptied the entire desk – read every scrap of paper – until finally, Irina's fingers fell upon on a bundle of papers with the prince's seal attached.

Vlad pointed to the heraldic wolf imprinted into the red wax at the foot of each letter. All the other documents on the desk had held either the Brunswick seal, or the Habsburg seal of office. These were different, "That's the Conclave's seal," he muttered, tapping the page on top.

Irina rolled her eyes. "It's the Lupesci family crest – Alexander wears it on his finger," she explained as she scanned the papers – her eyes narrowing as she stumbled over the swirling, swooping handwriting that seemed very un-Lupesci.

"Alexander?" Vlad repeated, jealous at her familiarity with the man.

Irina tutted, "He hunts wolves with a crossbow; I always thought it was to do with that… but now–"

"…What does it say?" Vlad asked.

She shook her head and huffed. "My very limited Hungarian isn't up to it."

"Give it here," Vlad said, taking the pages. His blue eyes travelled quickly from top to bottom, "It's from a woman – I can smell perfume all over it."

Irina scoffed. "That doesn't surprise me," she replied, remembering what Carmelia had told her when they first met – about how the Prince's desk was full of perfumed letters. "He's not starved for female attention. I think I'm the only woman in town who _isn't_ under his spell."

Vlad shook his head. "…It's not that kind of letter," he told her. "It's cryptic; she's asking what she should do with 'her guest' should the plan fail. _Here_, she asks the recipient for permission to 'indulge her nature' – whatever that means."

Irina puzzled. "…Guest? A _prisoner_, perhaps?"

Vlad shrugged, "It's signed by someone called, _A Vadásznő_ – The Huntress."

Irina suddenly heard Carmelia's silky voice in her head.

_…He's quite the greedy hunter, you know, once he sets his eye on a quarry, he simply refuses to share a scrap with anyone else_.

She snatched the parchment. _Of course_, "It's from Carmelia," she mumbled angrily. "Of course, she's a part of this."

Vlad was confused, "You know this woman?"

Irina looked at him, "You mean, you _don't_?"

"Should I?"

"…I would have thought so," Irina replied. "She's a vampire."

Vlad was outraged. "What?"

Irina couldn't believe it. "Wake up, Vlad; she's the one who attacked me that night – attacked _you_," she explained, slapping his shoulder with the paper – ghosting over the spot where the knife had sunk in, now miraculously healed. She sighed, "…No wonder Prince Lupesci never found the attacker – he was _employing_ her the whole time! He _wanted_ a vampire stalking the streets, scaring the peasants, causing panic... and he found one to do exactly that."

Vlad took the paper back and inhaled it skeptically. "…I don't recognise the scent. If I've met this woman, then I should recognise it…"

Irina's eyebrows bounced. "She's clever - if she's the huntress she claims to be then she'll know how to hide her tracks," she said as she picked another page. "Here, what does this one say?" she asked.

Vlad scanned the contents. He shrugged his lips, "It's a letter of thanks – from the Örök Bárója of Brassó – for recognition of his loyalty towards the crown."

"The Örök, what? What does that mean?"

"The Perpetual Baron of Braşov," Vlad translated. He groaned and muttered something in Romanian about Hungarians under his breath. "Perpetual Baron – it's an old Hungarian title that the King used to reward those closest to him with – those most loyal. Basically a title to be held in perpetuity. The men who held it were given administrative duties over counties – given lands, wealth, power, serfs – they were practically kings in their own right until the Habsburgs removed them and installed their own version."

Irina glanced down at the signature - the handwriting seemed familiar. "…So, who is this Perpetual Baron of Braşov? I wasn't aware there even _was_ a Baron of Braşov."

"Leonie told me that some of the girls at the brothel overheard The Mayor bragging on several occasions that he was to be shortly made a baron," Vlad explained.

Irina raised an eyebrow. "…Leonie?"

"Behave," he replied with a smirk. "She's a friend. Nothing more."

Irina harrumphed. "An argument for another time," she muttered as she took the letter and tried to focus on one problem at a time.

"And I'll be more than happy to have it," Vlad replied with a smirk. He leaned over her and whispered in her ear, "As long as it's resolved in _exactly_ the same manner as the last one."

Irina sent him a heated look before peering at the recipient's title at the top of the paper; it seemed all of the letters were addressed to the same person, "_Te kiválóság__–"_

Vlad duly translated, "Your excellency–"

"–_Székelyispán_," Irina read, her finger tracing over the word. "…What does that mean?"

"Another old title," Vlad explained. "The Count of the Székelys – it was the title for the leader of all Hungarian Transylvanians. All Hungarian born Princes of Transylvania used to style themselves with the title... until – _again_ – the Habsburgs did away with it. Couldn't have the Hungarians going around with an inflated sense of importance."

Irina scoffed. "Well, in my experience there are plenty of men wandering around Hermannstadt with an inflated sense of importance - too many," she replied. "But there's only one who would dare define himself as the leader of the Hungarian Transylvanians."

"Lupesci?" Vlad assumed.

"None other," Irina agreed.

"Now you understand why I _had_ to warn you," Vlad replied. "This madness will swallow us all."

"But we _can_ stop this. The seal – these letters – they're proof enough of his plans," Irina said, gathering them up in a bundle. "I can't believe the fool actually kept them – he's obviously arrogant enough to think he's going to succeed."

Vlad looked at her. "What do you want to do?"

"I have to get these letters to the Empress somehow – _secretly_ – without Lupesci knowing about it," she replied, wondering how she could do that.

Vlad reached for her. "Then come with me tonight, Irina," he suggested. "We'll take them straight to her. I'll escort you there myself."

Irina shook her head. "I can't, Vlad," she replied. "If I run now – steal away in the middle of the night without word, leaving this study in a state then he's going to know why and he's either going to step up his plans or scramble under a rock like the snake that he is." Not to mention the fact that the Empress seemed to have washed her hands of her - there was no guarantee she'd even listen to what she had to say. Her son, Emperor Joseph, on the other hand...

"Hm."

"It's possible that he murdered my father – I can't give him the opportunity to get away with that. I _won't_. And I'm _certainly_ not going to wait around either here or at Poenari or even Vienna for the Empress to send someone for him. I'm going to get to the bottom of it myself. I have to - for my father's sake, and for the serfs Prince Lupesci is planning to drag into this. People like Fiebe and her brother."

"Iubita mea, please think about what you're–"

"I want him to think that he's won," she told him, her brown eyes burning as she spoke. "And then I want to see the look in his eyes when he realises that he's lost."

"You want revenge."

"He's taken _everything_ from me – and I'm going to do _exactly_ the same to him."

Vlad couldn't help but admire her fire, but he feared deeply for her. "Irina, the wedding is tomorrow – _today_! It's today! In a matter of hours!" he reminded her, nodding at the clock on the bookcase displaying the early hour. "How far are you willing to go settle this score?"

Irina carefully placed the bundle of letters down on the desk and then took Vlad's hands. "Look, it's Ash Wednesday today – the first day of Lent. And because of that, they can't perform the ceremony until after dusk," she told him. "That will give me _plenty_ of time to put my affairs in order here and then do what needs to be done."

Vlad sent her a stern, worried look. He sighed as he took her face into his hands and hesitated before he spoke, "Then let me make you what I am. Let me give you power and the strength to do this."

She touched his hands. "I thought you didn't believe in that?"

He frowned. "I don't. I said I couldn't, I know... but the thought of losing you-"

"I'll be fine," she told him. "Besides, I can't afford to sleep all day - not yet anyway. And especially not tomorrow."

He pressed his forehead against hers. "Please let me protect you," he insisted. "You can't do this alone."

"I don't need you to protect me, Vlad," she whispered firmly. "And I can do this. More than that, I _want_ to. And I _need_ to do it – before I can even think about walking away from it all and being with you."

Vlad nodded, and then kissed her forcefully – _fearfully_ – pulling her body into his.

Irina looked into his eyes and smiled. Satisfied, she walked away to the other side of the desk and knelt down to stroke Folie and Scapino. "I need you to take my dogs with you to Poenari tonight – keep them safe," she said as she scratched their heads.

Vlad raised an eyebrow at the two hounds, curled up at the foot of the desk and panting up at him. "...I don't have any food to give them."

Irina stood up and made her way back to him. "I trust you. You'll work it out."

He sent her a look.

"I'll meet you all there at sunset once I've tied up all my affairs here," she said. She tutted, "Hopefully long before that. After sunset Carmelia could be a problem."

His lips curled. "Protect yourself with silver. But otherwise, leave her to me; I'd quite like to meet this vampire myself - whoever she is."

Irina nodded.

Vlad glanced at the map curling over the desk and sighed. "...Well, if I can't convince you to leave now with me and the dogs, then at least let me show you the short cut to Poenari that I mentioned – just in case you need it."

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**Hungarian Nobility:** ...Complicated stuff and I'm pretty sure I've got a lot of my very superficial research wrong on this, but I'll try and explain what I do know. So, before the Habsburgs took Hungary into their empire in the 16th century (after the Ottomans pretty much decimated the Hungarian army), the Kings of Hungary stretched from Croatia, across what we recognise today as Hungary, on to Transylvania. To keep control of this massive kingdom, the King would dole out titles to and administrative responsibilities for the various counties, districts and principalities to those he trusted most. Ispán, or **Perpetual Count**, was a title given to high nobles who ruled over districts within the Kingdom - they were responsible for military, finance and law within that district. **The ****Count of the Székelys **that Vlad mentions was also a real title given to the elected leader of Hungarian Transylvanians. As I think was mentioned before, Transylvania and old Wallachia were kind of vassal states of Hungary in the old days before the Habsburgs moved in, and so Princes of Transylvania who also happened to be Hungarian (because *wink wink* they were purposely picked by the King to be their eyes and ears in potentially wild Transylvania) were given this title as standard (even though it was technically a separate office). Our Vlad, despite being a Prince of Transylvania never went by it because he wasn't Hungarian._

_...Don't quote me on any of that. I'm little more than a noob when it comes to Hungarian history. It's complicated stuff and I got in a right tangle reading up on it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, the dogs are safe. That's all that matters. I'm not planning on pulling a John Wick stunt, just so we're clear. ;-)


	26. Twenty-Six

_ **Hermannstadt, Sânziene 1620** _

Carmelia huffed as she waded through the meadow of tall grass – holding her posy of wild flowers high over her head to give a little shade and relief from the heat of the midsummer sunshine. She kept her blue eyes to the ground – peering through the bristling fronds as she prowled for the one flower she was missing from her bunch.

"…Have you found any yet?" Sorina shouted from the other side of the meadow.

Carmelia stopped and groaned. "Oh yes, heaps," she shouted back. "I thought I'd just carry on trudging around in the burning sun getting bitten by horseflies for nothing."

Sorina wrinkled her nose as she stared into the sunlight, drawing her lips back over her large front teeth. "…Really?"

Carmelia swatted angrily at the grass around her. "_No_, Rabbit! _Of course_ I've not found any – have I! Gâscă! Don't you think I would have said if I had?"

Sorina shrugged as she brushed down her white petticoats – she wasn't sure of the answer to that question. "…Oh. Well, I don't know," she sighed as she began wading over – cutting a path through the long grass.

"Look, we might as well just give up; there's nothing left," Carmelia complained as she wiped the sweat from her forehead and aggressively waved away a horsefly. "There was _nothing_ 'round the back of the church, _nothing_ by the river – there was blankets of the stuff there last year! There was _nothing_ by the gates, _nothing_ in the woods near Turnișor – what a useless trudge that was! And now there's _nothing_ here neither! _Nothing_!"

Sorina put on a brave face. "…It's still a fine pick, Melia. You've enough there to make a beautiful crown," she said as she reached out to touch her friend's bundle of blooms – a firework of dog daisies, purple pin cushions, buttercups, ransoms, cow parsley and scarlet corn poppies spitting from her fist. "…Maybe even two."

Carmelia twisted sharply, pulling it out of reach. She scowled, "This is _your_ fault, Rabbit," she spat. "If you'd called for me on the eighth bell just as we planned, then I wouldn't have slept in, and all the other girls in town wouldn't have beaten us to it – would they?"

Sorina looked down at her own meagre handful of flowers, wilting in the heat. "…I know," she replied quietly. "I'm sorry… I told you, my măma needed help with the–"

"Oh, forget it!" Carmelia snapped. She frowned at her flowers, "You _know_ this is all worthless without a sprig of lady's bedstraw! Without that, the Sânziană won't weave their magic and Radu won't blink twice at me!"

Sorina scuffed her shoes in the dirt. "…But, he's promised to Maria – the cobbler's daughter," she said. "Don't you think it's wrong to try and tempt him away?"

Carmelia arched a blonde eyebrow. "…From _her_? She's dull as ditch water – I'd be doing him a favour," she scoffed as she set off through the grass towards the track leading back towards town. "Besides, they're not married yet. He's fair game."

Sorina sighed and rolled her eyes. "But why _him_? You could have any man you want, Melia," she said as she hurried along behind her friend – bounding through the grass. "With or without the lady's bedstraw you're the comeliest girl in Hermannstadt – and you know it."

"I don't _want_ just any man, Rabbit," Carmelia said. "I want one who's going to get me out of these peasant rags and take me as far away from this stinking town as possible."

She'd long decided that she'd rather die than spend another day as the butcher's bastard stepdaughter. She couldn't wait to be done with plucking chickens, scrubbing blood off the floor and rubbing animal fat into her hands just to keep them soft. She couldn't wait to get away from the stench of rotting meat – especially during the summer; the stench of it seemed to follow her – it seeped into everything. But most of all, she couldn't wait to get away from that cramped and sweaty garret, and her stepfather's wandering hands.

Carmelia shuddered and shook her head, "Radu's tata trades with the Turks," she said. "He's travelled all the way to the sultan's home _many_ times. Can you imagine?"

Sorina frowned. "…Why would he want to trade with _them_?" she asked, panting in the heat.

"Because they're rich, Rabbit," Carmelia explained, tutting. She tucked a greasy strand of blonde hair behind her ear, "Have you not _seen_ how Radu's măma dresses? All those silks and pearls? Lace ruffs and hoops and jewels. She even has a girl to curl her hair and buckle her shoes. _I_ want that. I want to _be_ someone."

"Well, I can buckle my own shoes. Or, I would if they had buckles," Sorina sulked as she reached the edge of the track – the dusty road snaking its way through the surrounding fields and farmland back into town. "And I don't want to leave Hermannstadt. I can't imagine being anywhere else. I like it here."

Carmelia sighed, "It's a hole. Nothing interesting ever happens," she said as she glanced up and down the road, the sun blazing down upon it.

"I prefer it that way," Sorinna replied, twiddling her flowers.

"Dumnezeule, it's hot," Carmelia complained, dreading the walk back into town. She lightly fanned herself with her flowers, "If I was rich I wouldn't have to walk everywhere – I would have a carriage to carry me wherever I wanted to go. Spare my poor feet."

As if on cue, the distant sound of carriage wheels grinding over the dusty track could be heard – and when Carmelia turned her head, she saw a whole troop of them travelling towards them – all pulled by glossy black mares, kicking up dust as they went. The roof of each wooden carriage was piled high with ornate trunks and caskets, the drivers dressed finely in black, satin doublets.

Carmelia snatched Sorina's hand and dragged her a few steps backwards as the carriages flew towards them. They stood there on the side of the road watching wide-eyed as they clattered past, peering through the windows at fine ladies and gentlemen sitting inside – fanning themselves in the heat. There was one lady who rested the embroidered sleeves of her gown on the window ledge and reached outside to touch the flowing air – the intricate needle-lace of her cuff flapping in the breeze.

Carmelia's mouth dropped at the size of the pearls the woman wore around her wrist, and the size of the ruby she was wearing on her middle finger. She couldn't help smiling at such finery, but when she looked down at her bare knuckles – rough from chores – and the rolled sleeves of her bland, white linen dress, she seethed with jealousy.

After the carriages, came the procession of men on horseback – the soldiers and servants chasing them. All of them finely dressed and groomed, with long hair and pointed beards and swords swinging at their hips. Some of them smiled and doffed their hats as they galloped by – nudging each other to look at the pretty young peasant girls gathering flowers for Sânziene.

"…Who are they?" Sorina asked, gawking after them.

Carmelia smirked, swinging her hips and offering a curtsey to the men who waved at her. "I don't know, but they must be important," she replied as the last of the men on horseback thundered by – leaving clouds of dust floating in his wake.

Sorina stumbled into the road. "They certainly acted like it."

"…Maybe they've come from Gyulafehérvár – from Prince Bethlen's court," Carmelia muttered excitedly as she watched the carriages disappear around the corner. "Look, they're heading towards town; they've probably come to celebrate Sânziene…"

She hovered in the road for a moment, waving away the clouds of dust as she pondered a new path for herself. All at once, she forgot about Radu – that simple trader's son – and set her sights on a higher target.

"I've found some!" Sorina suddenly shouted from the other side of the road. "Over here!"

Carmelia picked up her skirts and hurried over. There, growing behind a tangle of thistles within a ditch at the side of the road was a golden clump of lady's bedstraw – the frothy yellow flowers like flames on top of long, green stems. She shoved Sorina out of the way and quickly scooped up a large bundle for herself – inhaling the familiar, honeyed scent of the blooms as she tucked them into her colourful posy of wildflowers.

Now that it was finally complete, she grinned. "Come on," she said. "Let's go and find some shade by the river. We've got crowns to make."

* * *

Come nightfall, once the sun had slipped beneath the horizon – taking with it its heat and leaving behind a blush coloured sky – the cobbled streets and squares of Hermannstadt were full of people, the whole town – young and old, rich and poor – having come together to celebrate a night of love and magic. In the middle of the Piața Mare, a huge bonfire blazed – the embers floating upwards and joining the slowly emerging stars in the night sky. Girls in white petticoats and flower crowns danced around the flames, while young men spun torches and leapt daringly through the flames.

Carmelia floated on the excitement. She'd spent the entire afternoon getting ready – washing the dust from her white chemise in the river and carefully plaiting her long, blonde curls – determined to look her very best. Sorina had helped her weave together a vast crown of flowers that even the Queen of the Iele would have been jealous of, and when she placed it on her head and peered at her reflection in the still waters of the weir, she decided that she'd never felt more beautiful. With plenty of blooms left over, she'd slipped the last few blossoms of cow parsley into her hair, and had tucked the remaining few sprigs of lady's bedstraw into the long scrap of linen that she'd wrapped tightly around her middle to show off her tiny waist.

When she strolled into the square with Sorina at sunset, she'd felt her heart pound with every glance she stole – especially from the noble men and women who gathered on a large, canopied platform outside the town hall. Rumours circled that Prince Bethlen himself had come to see the festivities, and that at midnight, his young bride Catherine, would choose the Dragaica – the purest and most beautiful girl in Hermannstadt, who would lead the other girls in dancing the hora around the bonfire.

Carmelia set out immediately to sabotage her competition. She ensured that the tall and willowy Elena Florescu – who had come proudly wearing her dead grandmother's intricately embroidered wedding skirt – was sloppy with her cup of wine; a slight shove and the girl spilled the red liquid all down the front and sobbed that she'd ruined such a family treasure. An outstretched foot was all it took to send Iona Albu and her famously thick, black curls headfirst into a horse trough. And as for Maria – the cobbler's daughter and Radu's betrothed – a little crumbled blood sausage dropped down the back of her blouse was all it took to make her irresistible to every crazed and starving stray dog wandering the square for scraps.

When the church bell finally tolled midnight and Carmelia lined up with the other girls in front of the platform, she held her breath and pleaded with God and the Sânziană to let her win.

The Princess made her way slowly down the line – her tiny frame drowning within the hooped black gown she wore – heavily encrusted with pearls that shuddered with every step.

Carmelia frowned; the girl couldn't have been more than fifteen and she was already married, and to a Prince no less! It wasn't fair.

"…Such pretty ladies," the princess observed shyly, blinking at Iona's limp and dripping locks. "…The men of Hermannstadt are blessed to have such brides."

Despite her inner contempt, Carmelia kept her eyes low, and when the scent of lavender and orris root from the Princess' dangling pomander pricked her nostrils, and the jewels and pearls that she wore glinted in the corner of her eye – she dropped into the deepest, most graceful curtsy she could manage without falling over.

"…What's your name, girl?" the princess asked.

_Girl!?_ Carmelia's blue eyes flashed upwards – lingering over the elaborate lace ruff framing the Princess' heart-shaped face like petals, before dropping humbly. "…Carmelia, your majesty."

"A beauty as rare as her namesake flower," the Princess observed, neatly folding her tiny jewelled hands.

Carmelia's heart pounded as she eyed the size of the diamond that the girl was wearing on her knuckle. "…_You're_ the flower here tonight, your majesty. Not me," she replied as she slowly rose to her feet.

The Princess smiled – her pink cheeks dimpling. She nodded, "Beautiful, modest and kind – _you_ shall be our Dragaica and lead the dance."

Carmelia could barely contain her joy as she danced around the fire for everyone to see – swirling and swaying with the flames and casting her blue eyes out into the crowd in the hope that she'd find the heavy gaze of some nobleman staring back at her. Some man who'd claim her as his own and take her far away – so beguiled by her beauty that he'd lavish her with whatever she wanted.

And she did.

Off to the side – away from the clapping and cheering crowd – was a man leaning against the well, and he couldn't seem to take his eyes from her. She could tell he was a man of quality from his clothes – from the polished riding boots and the fitted black, satin doublet he wore – unbuttoned to the waist to reveal a clean white shirt and ruffled collar. Well-groomed, he had long dark hair with a pointed beard and mustache and wore a single white pearl in one ear. He was handsome, with high cheekbones, curling lips and eyes that promised mischief.

Carmelia felt a thrill at being watched; she grinned when she caught his gaze and gulped when he seemed to smirk back at her. She threw her arms up into the air and spun – dancing with abandon – dancing for _him_. She felt as though she were on the tips of her toes, reaching up for something – stretching every muscle in her body to get it – sweating from the heat of the fire blazing beside her.

When she turned however, the man seemed to have vanished and she worried that she'd behaved too brazenly and driven him away.

* * *

After midnight the bonfires began to dwindle, and the streets began to clear. Young couples kissed and made promises to one other beneath the midsummer moon, and girls threw their flower crowns up into the air and over the roofs of their houses – hoping that when they finally crawled into bed that they'd dream of their future husband.

Once Carmelia said goodnight to her friends, she padded barefoot through the empty, petal-strewn streets towards home – finding the cobbles warm under her feet, holding onto the heat from the sun. Her skin felt hot too from being out in the sun all day and prickled when her clothes brushed up against it; she was sure her pale skin would blister by the morning.

When she finally reached her stepfather's shop and looked up at the closed shutters, she took off her flower crown and sighed; the blooms had all wilted in the heat from the fire and she felt like wilting along with them. Sânziene was over, and it had been _wonderful_ – but she hadn't got what she'd wanted, and she wanted to scream from the loss.

She took a step back and suddenly hurled the flower crown as high and as hard as she could – watching as it spun through the balmy night air, snowing petals as it went. It flopped between the eaves and then slowly slid down the sloping roof, rolling off the edge before flopping lifelessly at her feet.

It was a bad omen; some believed that it meant death was lurking nearby.

Carmelia left the flowers lying where they'd fallen and then stomped off down the street – ignoring the worried voice in her head that told her it was dangerous to be out alone on Sanziene; nothing was worse than what waited for her inside that sweaty garret, anyway.

She made her way through the empty streets – following the trails of flower petals down the steps and out through the gate, making her way down to the river. As she bathed her feet and hot cheeks in the cool water – fresh from the mountains – she heard a twig snap behind her and suddenly stood bolt upright, like a startled deer.

"Who's there?" she shouted, glaring into the shadows around her.

She frowned when she didn't get an answer – only the bubbling sound of the river rushing over its rocky bed.

"…Radu?" she called. She folded her arms and rolled her blue eyes; she'd caught him staring longingly after her all night and now he'd come to find her, "You're not funny, and I'm not frightened – so you might as well show yourself."

When the man from the square stepped out from between the trees, she felt a thrill.

"…Oh," she sighed. She dropped a curtsy, "Sir."

He approached her slowly; his blue eyes sallow and frenzied in the way they stared at her – admiring and ignoring all at once. He looked as though he hadn't slept for a century.

Carmelia hovered. "…It's not safe to step out alone on Sanziene, you know," she warned, cocking her hip coquettishly.

The man stopped in front of her. He tilted his head, "And why is that?"

His voice was deep and rasping - like the hiss of a grass snake.

She looked at him. "Because the Sânziană are busy at their magic – they don't like to be disturbed," she told him, her eyes flashing between his steely gaze and the pearl swinging from his ear.

The man's lips curled. "...You don't seem too bothered by them," he observed as he hitched his boot on a log.

Carmelia glanced down at it. "That's because I'm a _woman_, sir," she replied, licking him from boot to brow with her bright blue gaze.

"…I can see that," he husked.

She breathed heavily. "They don't harm us women and girls," she explained. "…They protect us."

"Protect you?" he replied, stepping closer to her. "...From _what_, exactly?"

Carmelia gazed at the light sheen of sweat clinging to the surface of his pale forehead. He looked as though he were in the grips of a fever. "Men like _you_, I think."

The man reached out; he flicked her tangled plait of blonde hair roughly over her shoulder and cupped her neck. He was surprised; she didn't flinch, but she wasn't exactly frozen in fear either – motionless except for the soft rise and fall of her chest and fluttering eyelashes.

"And yet you seem strangely at ease," he said as he smoothed his thumb up and down her neck. "Don't I frighten you?"

She lifted her chin slightly. "I don't know you, sir," she replied. "Can't be frightened of what I don't know."

"Would you _like_ to know me?" he rasped, leaning closer – his gaze strolling the length of her neck.

Carmelia swallowed; she glanced at his lips. "…I–"

The man's eyes flashed in the dark. There it was, finally. _Fear_. He smirked, "Because I know you."

"…You do?" Carmelia replied, blinking back at him.

"I saw what you did tonight – what you did to those girls," he told her. "I _watched_ you."

Carmelia licked her lips. "…And were you entertained?"

The man frowned slightly, "I'm not sure I'd call watching a girl being ripped apart by stray dogs _entertaining_," he said – pulling her closer by the neck and peering carefully into her eyes. He swallowed uncomfortably, "Such a waste."

He watched her expression sift from fluttering shock, to a sort of gluttonous look of excitement at having caused such a thing. The final shift was to a settled smirk of satisfaction.

"…She deserved it," Carmelia stated without even a flicker of regret in her cold eyes.

"For what?" he asked, bathing her face with his breath. "What could she possibly have done to deserve such a thing?"

Carmelia shrugged her lips. "She _stole_ something from me."

The man tightened his grip on her neck a little. "What did she steal?"

"A boy," Carmelia replied with a slight frown.

He chuckled humourlessly. "…A boy? Somehow, I doubt you're starved for attention," he said, his eyes sinking between them – tracing her curves. His lips pulled downwards in disgust, "And what now? Hm? Now that you've _ruined_ your rival – you'll take him all for yourself? Until something better comes along, no doubt…"

Carmelia shut her eyes and sighed dreamily. "You're right; you do know me."

The man sneered.

"And you can have me, if you want," she said, looking up at him through her lashes. "_If_ you promise to take me as far away from this place as possible."

"You'd give yourself to a stranger?" he asked as he snaked an arm around her waist. "_Just_ to escape this place?"

"You seem important," she answered, her blue eyes flitting sideways – watching his pearl earring swing in the dark. "_I_ want to be important. I deserve better than what's waiting for me back there," she added, nodding in the distant direction of town.

The man grinned – drawing his lips back over his teeth. "Oh, I'll give you _exactly_ what you deserve," he muttered. "You humans are no better than I..."

Carmelia's eyes dropped in alarm to his pointed canines a moment too late. She squeaked as she stumbled backwards and fell to the ground – her hands clawing back through the dusty undergrowth of leaves and twigs as she tried to get away.

But the man was stronger, and faster – in an instant he'd pinned her to the ground, kneeling on her arm and pressing her face to the side as he dropped his head to her neck and bit down, _hard_. _Painfully_ hard.

Carmelia scrambled; she beat her free fist into his back and kicked her legs and feet – she tried to scream but found that any breath drawn from her lungs muffled by the large hand smothering her face - forcing her cheek down into the dirt. She continued to thrash as she blinked fearfully up through the dark canopy of leaves overhead – even when the blinding pain in her neck began to drain away and she felt herself growing dizzy and weak.

Unwilling to give up, with the last of her strength she snatched the heavy hand pressing into her face and bit down – right into the soft, stretched skin between the man's thumb and index finger. She felt her mouth instantly fill with hot blood and distantly heard his heavy growl before the sky swirled away to black.

* * *

Carmelia awoke with jolt to the sound of the birdsong, and the pale light of a quickly approaching dawn. She panted as she sat up and pressed her hands to her face and neck – walking her fingertips along her jaw and frowning when she found it sticky with blood. She grimaced at the sickly sweet and metallic taste of blood on her tongue, but when she dropped her fingers to her neck, she failed to find any welts or wounds.

"Să te fut!" she yelled at the trees around her – at the mysterious man who'd attacked her and left her to die.

Why hadn't she died? She'd felt the darkness of death – felt the life literally drain from her until she was nothing more than an empty shell of skin of bones. She was even more surprised that he hadn't raped her; her skirts were barely ruffled and she failed to feel any soreness or bruising between her thighs.

She was amazed at how easily she leapt to her feet, and yet more amazed at how quickly she made her way back into town – arriving long before the first rays of sunlight hit the square, and just as the church bell was tolling five of the clock. Parched with thirst and desperate to avoid a beating from her stepfather, she decided to go to Sorina's family cottage at the foot of the steps. Sweet, stupid Sorina. She'd surely feed her something and listen to her story.

Carmelia leapt the fence like a cat, startling the geese and chickens pottering in the yard as she crept in through the back door. She sneaked up the wonky staircase to the attic room that Sorina shared with her little sisters and found her friend snoring in the corner bed, her body curled around her youngest sister.

"Rabbit, wake up," Carmelia hissed, jabbing her friend's shoulder.

Sorina mumbled as she stirred. She opened her eyes slowly but startled when she saw Carmelia perching on the edge of her bed – her chin and throat mottled brightly with blood. "Melia!" she breathed, throwing a hand to her open mouth. "Dumnezeule! What _happened_ to you?"

Carmelia rolled her eyes. "Some lăbar attacked me in the woods," she tutted, her gaze drifting to Sorina's sister – still snoring softly in the small, cramped wooden bed like a little pig. She could hear her little heart fluttering – like a songbird trapped in a cage. Her skin looked so plump, soft and pink. "…I'm so thirsty, do you have any wine?" she muttered distractedly.

Sorina hesitated as she sat up and wiped the sleep from her eyes. "…Măma has some downstairs," she whispered, sweeping her long hair over her shoulder, "But we shouldn't, Melia – tata was so angry last time we drank it."

Carmelia's gaze drifted to Sorina's bare neck; she watched it pulsing – _throbbing_ – the sound of it drowning out everything around her. And suddenly, she felt a thirst unlike any she'd ever felt – felt her mouth go dry with it. She swallowed hard and felt her teeth pinch into her lips.

Sorina blinked nervously at her friend. "…What is it?" she squeaked. "Melia, you're scaring me."

Carmelia leaned forward slowly. She shrugged and fluttered her lashes, "Nothing, Rabbit," she purred.

* * *

_ **Hermannstadt, Ash Wednesday 1770** _

Carmelia grinned as she stepped over the peasant girl's body – lying face down in the alleyway, her throat ripped like silk. She drew a silk handkerchief from the pocket of her cloak as she strolled towards the square, licking the corners of her lips before neatly dabbing them with it.

Oh how she'd always loved the feeling. That feeling of power; it hadn't faded a shade since the first time. She loved the warmth of fresh blood as it slowly filled her; it reminded her of summer nights long ago – and of the way the sun's rays seemed to linger on the skin long after it had sunk below the horizon.

But as she stepped out onto the Piața Mare, she saw something that chilled her to the bone; so much so that she immediately took a step back into the alleyway.

She peered around the bricks and frowned as her blue eyes settled on the man who'd attacked her almost two hundred centuries ago – the man who'd made her what she was. Her eyes followed him as he emerged from The Governor's Palace and made off across the square - followed obediently by two familiar dark hounds.

* * *

_ **Historical/Language Notes:** _

_**Sânziene:** Romanian summer folk festival - kind of like midsummer. Traditionally it's seen as a night full of magic - where the door between the mortal realm and that of the Iele (fairies of Romanian mythology) is easily passed through. Girls spend the day picking flowers and then dance the night away with their intended. :-)_

_**"Gâscă": **Romanian, "Stupid"._

_**"Dumnezeule!": **Romanian, "My God!"_

_**Doublet:**_ _More historical fashion - this time for guys. Doublets were the high collared, buttoned jackets worn by men during the late 16th and early 17th centuries - usually with big ruffs worn around the neck. __Think Tudors! __We're still a few years away from the early three piece suit that becomes the mainstay of men's fashion heading into the 18th and 19th (and twentieth) centuries coming into fashion. ;-)_

_**Gyulafehérvár: **Hungarian name for the Transylvanian city, Alba Iulia. During Carmelia's time, it was the main administrative city for the Principality of Transylvania - and where the ruling Prince of Transylvania held court._

_**Prince Bethlen:** _ _Gábor Bethlen was Prince of Transylvania from 1613 to 1629 - and actually ruled Transylvania independently. By all accounts he was pretty damn at his job - during his time in office, Transylvania entered a "golden age". He kept the Habsburgs out, maintained a pretty good relationship with the Sublime Porte (the Ottomans/Turks), made sure that Serf children were allowed an education and maintained religious tolerance for all faiths. When he died, his wife Catherine became Princess of Transylvania and tried to hold onto the throne and rule with her lover - but she was forced out after a year._

_**"Să te fut!":** Romanian, "Fuck you!"_

_**"Lăbar":** Romanian, I think the best translation is probably "Wanker"._


	27. Twenty-Seven

_ **Hermannstadt, Ash Wednesday 1770** _

Dawn came early that morning; the bright, spring light streamed in through the windows and made its presence known, bleaching everything it touched – from the floorboards to the furniture, and even the dust and dog fur floating in the air. For the first time in a long time – and for perhaps the last time – Irina had risen with it; the bed had felt cold and lonely without the dogs, while the echo of Vlad's touch had kept her wide awake. She'd gone to the window to watch the sun rise over the rooftops as she pondered the day ahead of her and all she had to do.

When Fiebe came in to wake her mistress and make a start on her toilette, she was surprised to find nothing more than a tangle of sheets on the bed and Irina hunched over her writing desk near the window in her dressing gown – her quill fluttering furiously as she wrote.

"…Bună dimineaţa, Ducesa," she greeted from the door, her sewing basket balancing on her hip. "You are not sleeping…"

Irina carried on writing. "Good spot," she said, glancing briefly over her shoulder, "Come in, close the door."

Fiebe did as she was told and then made her way across the room, hesitating slightly as she waited for Folie and Scapino to come bounding at her as they usually did. When they didn't, she frowned and looked around the room. "…Where is dog?"

"Safe with a friend." Irina waved her quill as she searched for the right word, "Uh, _ferit_. Cu un prieten – inţelegeţi?"

Fiebe approached slowly, pulling a face as she noticed the lace fichu wrapped tightly around her mistress' neck – shrouding it from view. "…Ferit, Ducesa?"

"Da. Don't ask, it's not what's important right now; I haven't the time to explain it once in German let alone a second time in Romanian," Irina added as she dropped her quill into the ink pot and then briskly sprinkled salt over the paper and ink. "So let's just leave it at that."

Fiebe set her basket down beside the desk chair and peered over Irina's shoulder, watching as she blew away the salt, folded the letter and then scribbled a name across the front. "…For the eyes of Baron Benedict, The Card Sharp of Spittelberg?"

Irina smirked as she quickly sealed the letter with wax. "Yes."

Oh how she wished that she could be there to see Joseph's face when one of the Imperial Guards dropped the letter on his desk! He'd _never_ been fond of that nickname – a private joke between them that had come about when one of Irina's old maids back in Vienna had spotted him creeping out of a notorious brothel in Spittelberg – and on more than one occasion. When Irina had teased him, he'd lied and told her that there had been nothing sinister about it – simply a card game – to which her reply – a raised eyebrow and a look that might have given his mother a run for her money – was more than enough to make him buckle. Since then, he'd become quite fond of his private title, and yet, she _knew_ he'd be cross seeing it written out in front of him and would be tempted to watch the letter curl in a candleflame. She only hoped that once he'd looked at the accompanying documents and read the forwarding letter from his sister, he'd soon come to understand that the slightly cruel subterfuge had been necessary.

Irina set the letter down carefully on top of the one she'd already written to Amalia – bulked out with the incriminating documents she'd found in her father's desk.

She swivelled side-saddle in her seat, and looked up at Fiebe, "I need you to listen _very_ carefully to me, Fiebe – asculta cu atentie," she said, tapping her ear. "Inţelegeţi?"

Fiebe nodded, "Yes, Ducesa."

Irina took her hand. "I need to trust you to do something very, very important for me," she explained.

Fiebe looked down at her hand and swallowed hard.

"The truth is, that you've become _more_ than just a maid to me these past few months," Irina went on. "You've been a friend and a confident – uh, un _bun_ prieten – which is why I _know_ I can trust you to do this one thing for me."

Fiebe sighed and frowned. She shook her head slowly, "Ducesa, I not–"

"Come on, I need to show you something," Irina said, keeping a tight hold of Fiebe's hand as she suddenly stood up.

She hadn't realised that Fiebe's basket had been plonked down by the side of her desk chair however, and as she stood up, she managed to kick the basket – sending the contents spilling across the floorboards. When Irina's eyes fell upon a familiar looking jar nestled amongst the pin cushions and the scraps of lace and silk, she dropped Fiebe's hand.

"…Fiebe…?" she muttered as she bent down and scooped up the jar of Mercurialis Perennis – Dog's Mercury.

Fiebe took a step back and gulped as she watched her mistress handling the jar.

Irina chased her, noticing how her blue eyes were shifting and how she twiddled with her fingers. "…I've asked you twice already to get rid of this – do I really need to ask a third time?" she said, shaking the jar at her. "Once is understandable. Twice, I could put down to forgetfulness, but _this_? This is outright defiance."

Suddenly, Fiebe eyes were spilling with tears.

"…Why on earth would you still have it?" Irina asked. "I told you last night to get rid of it – to _burn_ it immediately–"

"Ducesa," Fiebe stuttered, shaking her head.

"Answer me!" Irina demanded, suddenly raising her voice.

Fiebe immediately fell to her knees and cried out. "Please forgive me, Ducesa!" she begged. "_Forgive_ me!"

Irina looked down at her friend's strawberry blonde curls and felt a gnawing feeling deep inside. "…For _what_," she snarled, tightly clutching the jar in her fist.

"I have choice _none_! They torture my brother – they torture Ferenc!" Fiebe admitted tearfully.

"_Who_?"

"Herr and Fraulein Carmitru!" Fiebe replied. "They say that if I not do what they ask they kill him!"

Irina felt a lump rise in the back of her throat. "…Do _what_?" she asked, her voice cracking away when she realised that she knew the answer already. "_What_ did they ask you to do?"

When she thought back to her father's final hours – to the sudden vomiting, the swelling in his belly and the sallow, yellow hue his cheeks had taken on as he drifted in and out of consciousness – the symptoms all pointed towards poison – specifically, Dog's Mercury. It was so obvious; she couldn't believe she'd missed it.

Fiebe sobbed loudly and shook her head. "_Please_, Ducesa–"

"I asked you a question!" Irina barked as she threw the jar down between them, watching with some satisfaction as the glass exploded like a firework at her feet.

Fiebe flinched and cowered. "_Please_…"

Irina lunged for her, "I want to hear you say it!" she shouted as she grabbed a fistful of Fiebe's curls and forced her to meet her gaze. She reached down and snatched up a shard of broken glass, "And you will look me in the eyes when you say it!"

Fiebe looked up – her blue eyes full of fear and wet with misery. "…I kill him," she squeaked. "I kill your tata." She pointed to the jar – or what was left of it – the curled leaves spread across the floorboards around her. "L-am otrăvit. I put in medicine."

Irina tightened her grip and felt the shard of glass dig painfully into the palm of her hand, and for a split second – sick with her betrayal – she considered slashing Fiebe's face with it. But then she saw the scar – the slightly raised, slightly reddened patch of skin on Fiebe's pale neck – and stopped herself.

As soon as she'd shoved Fiebe away and dropped the glass, Irina broke apart.

There had been a moment where she'd refused to believe it; _refused_ to believe that Fiebe – her _friend_ – could possibly do such a thing – and after everything she'd done for her. But there it was, as clear as the bright morning light pooling across the floorboards between them – reflecting off the broken shards of glass.

Irina slumped onto her side and cried, and cried, and cried – cradling her hand as it pooled with fresh blood.

"…Forgive me, Ducesa," Fiebe whimpered through her own tears as she picked up some shredded muslin and crawled through the broken glass towards her, ready to bandage her mistress' hand to stop the bleeding.

At the sound of her pitiful voice Irina viciously backhanded her. "Forgive you?! I should make you eat the whole fucking jar!" she screamed.

Fiebe shrunk away, "I not want to do it!" she insisted desperately. "I will to hell for it! I not forget – I not sleep! _Please_, Ducesa–"

Irina scowled at the girl as she sat huddled among the broken glass and confetti of leaves. She was sick with anger, but the truth was that Fiebe was as much a victim in all of this as she was – simply a pawn, forced into battle at the behest of someone far more powerful. And when she wondered why Fiebe hadn't just gotten rid of the jar – of the evidence – and protected herself from being caught, Irina realised that the girl had been carrying the guilt with her for weeks – quite literally. She was far too kind-hearted to lie and to cover her tracks – she knew that she'd done a terrible, monstrous thing and had probably wanted to get caught – had felt that she deserved that.

Irina sat back for a moment, watching blood pool in the palm of her hand as she pondered her next move. Her whole plan going forward had hinged on Fiebe, and being able to trust her – something that barely minutes before she'd been absolutely certain of – but now? She realised that the sad truth was that she wasn't sure she had a choice – after all, the only way forward, was forward.

Irina took a breath and looked at Fiebe, "…No more lies," she warned. "Gata cu _minciunile_, inţelegeţi?"

Fiebe glanced weepy-eyed at her mistress. "Da, Ducesa. I never lie to you again."

"I should think not. You'll tell me everything," Irina said as she clutched her bleeding hand. She pointed a finger. "_Every_-thing."

Fiebe nodded. "…Everything, Ducesa."

They sat on the floorboards for a long time; as soon as Fiebe started telling Irina the truth about her father's death and everything that had led up to it, it unravelled from her and babbled from her freckled lips like a river after the winter thaw.

The truth was that not long after Ferenc had taken Irina to Poenari, he'd been seized by the Carmitru. They'd tortured him for weeks and threatened his life in the hope of using Fiebe as a pawn in their plans. To save her brother's life, Fiebe had promised to kill the Duke. They hadn't offered her a weapon or told her how to do it, but her newly acquired knowledge of herbs and the ready-prepared arsenal in Irina's bedroom had been _more_ than enough.

Irina tucked her legs under her chemise and dressing gown and watched as Fiebe gently cleaned the wound in her palm and bandaged it up with a scrap of muslin. "You worked in the Carmitru household for a long time – you were Fraulein Carmitru's maid," she said, rubbing her forehead, "Did you ever hear them mention something called The Carpathian Conclave?"

Fiebe looked at her. "…Yes, Ducesa," she replied as she tied off the makeshift bandage. "_Many_ times."

"Their reign of terror is _over_, do you understand?" Irina said as she sat back and stared at the leaves and broken glass – an addendum to her plan formulating in her mind. She scooped up the deadly dried leaves and shoved them into the pockets of her dressing gown. "…They're not going to get away with this. With _any_ of it."

Fiebe began dutifully scooping up the broken glass – plucking the shards from between the floorboards and dropping them into her basket. "They are too strong," she said, shaking her head. "Too dangerous."

Irina helped her. "…We all have our weaknesses," she replied.

When the bedroom door suddenly creaked inwards, the women looked up and were surprised to find Prince Lupesci striding into the room unannounced, already dressed in his finest suit – an embroidered silver coat trimmed with brown fur _(most likely from a bear)_, with matching breeches and waistcoat.

The door clicked shut, and then his brown boots came marching towards them. "Wife," he greeted, his lips curling into one of his almost smiles.

Irina staggered to her feet and quickly tied off her dressing gown. "A little premature, don't you think?" she replied, swallowing down the anger that was boiling to the brim inside of her.

Prince Lupesci's tepid gaze drifted downwards. "I simply wanted to see how the word tasted on the lips," he replied, holding out his hand.

"…And?" Irina replied as she dropped her hand into his.

He lifted it to his lips and kissed her knuckles – peering curiously at the bandage. "As sweet as it sounds," he replied.

Irina forced a smile. She was quietly pondering picking up one of the shards of glass on the floor and slitting his throat with it.

"…What happened here?" he asked as he turned over her palm and pressed his thumb against the muslin binding.

Irina shrugged, "Oh," she said, waving her other hand, "I was clumsy – one of my perfume bottles smashed and I cut myself on it."

The prince off to the side, catching Fiebe's red-eyed gaze as she carried on carefully gathering the bits of glass. He sniffed the air, "I can't smell anything."

"It was old… and almost empty. Never mind," she lied as she tried to steal her hand back – but the prince held on. She steered him away, "Isn't this unlucky?" she said, attempting to steer the conversation along with him. "I thought you weren't supposed to set eyes on your bride before the ceremony."

Prince Lupesci hummed. "I'm no slave to superstition," he told her as they strolled over to the mannequin near the window. "Besides, there's been a slight change of plan – I thought it best to come and tell you about it myself."

Irina felt her heart leap into her throat. _A change of plan? Now?_ "…How thoughtful," she replied.

"As you know – with today being the first day of lent – Archbishop Sigismund has been quite strict about today's ceremony being performed only _after_ sunset," the prince explained.

Irina nodded, "Of course."

The prince smiled. "Well, I managed to sway him; I've convinced him to change his mind."

"…You did?" she replied, feeling her blood run cold.

He nodded as he lifted her hand to his lips again. "You'll now attend confession at four and then meet me in the cathedral at five – just before sunset."

Irina hesitated. She'd planned to be on her way to Poenari by sunset – knowing that if anything happened or went wrong, she'd have Vlad's protection. "_Before_ sunset…?"

The prince kissed her fingertips. "Problem?" he asked, nipping at them gently - tasting the tips.

Irina peered up at him through her lashes. "...Not at all," she replied, realising that her plans would have to shift slightly off course. "Did you manage to change his mind about the feast and ball too? It _is_ supposed to be a celebration after all."

Prince Lupesci was pleased she seemed to think so. "Roast stag and wine. No music," he replied.

Irina sighed.

"I'm sure you'll cope," he said as he released her hand and reached past her to smooth his fingers along the blue, satin pleats of her wedding gown. His pupils dilated as he admired it. "…This I like, by the way."

Irina stiffened as his lips hovered near her ear – praying that he didn't look past her fichu and see the bite marks on her neck.

"…I can't wait to see you wear it," he whispered, brushing her hip with the back of his fingers. "…And I'm even more anxious for the moment I get to remove it."

Irina caught his heavy gaze as he pulled back. Her brown eyes flashed, "Well, I do hope you're patient, your highness," she replied softly, threateningly. "Because you're going to be waiting an _awfully_ long time for that moment."

Prince Lupesci narrowed his eyes at her, a snarl on his lips.

"…Probably midnight, at the very earliest – by the time the wedding feast and ball is finished," she elaborated innocently, shrugging her lips.

At her teasing, he sent her a sour smile.

"...I mean," Irina went on, lowering her voice and spitting a little of her old fire, "you're lucky Archbishop Sigismund isn't insisting you abstain from fucking me until Lent is over."

He scoffed; his eyes dropped to her breasts. "I'm going to enjoy that foul mouth of yours," he told her before stomping away.

Irina scowled at his back as he retreated from the room. Oh, how she _longed_ to tell him that he'd never, _ever_ get the chance to touch her – over her dead body – and even better, that someone else had beaten him to it – barely hours ago, in fact.

"…Five. Don't be late," he reminded her before he left, closing the door behind him.

Once he'd gone, Irina clenched her fists and took a long, deep breath. Time was no longer on her side and she was going to have to move quickly.

"Fiebe," she said, rushing over to her. "I want you to pack a bag _full_ of my jewels, and another with clothes, underpinnings and shoes – enough for _three_ outfits, and _only_ three outfits. Oh, and a cloak." She stooped over and gathered up a handful of leaves – shoving them into the pockets of her dressing gown. "Understand?"

Fiebe stood up slowly, "Yes, Ducesa, but–"

"Don't pack the black pearls, leave them out on my vanity," Irina added as she made her way to the door, "as well as – oh, you know that silver necklace with the baubles? The little ones, the one that look _exactly_ like musket balls – uh, _glonţ_? Is that the right word? It's very important. Oh! And I'm going to need the metal pliers from your basket."

Fiebe nodded. "Da."

"_That one_. Leave that, _and_ a diamond bracelet – I don't care which one," Irina went on. She touched her undressed ears, "Oh! And a pair of my diamond girandoles – the biggest you can find."

"But Ducesa–"

"Just do it, please," Irina said from the door. "And don't go anywhere – I'll be back."

Irina hurried from the room, tiptoeing her way down the corridor towards the landing – where she stooped over the railing and peered down into the hallway below. Prince Lupesci was hovering there, barking orders at the maids and footmen who were busy preparing the house for the wedding feast – switching candles, sweeping floors and polishing wine glasses.

"I want that carriage parked up outside those doors before four, is that understood?" he shouted as a footman appeared with his cloak and cane. "If she's late, I'll be seeking you out."

"Of course, your highness," the man said, dropping his head.

Prince Lupesci snatched his cloak and cane, and then he was gone – storming through the doors and to his waiting carriage.

As soon as he was gone, Irina rushed downstairs – leaping the final couple of steps and swooping past the ballroom and through a side door into the servant's corridor. She made her way through the chaos to the kitchens, where a whole crowd of servants were bumping around preparing a meager wedding feast. They seemed surprised to see the Duchess wandering among them in her dressing gown but were obviously too frightened of displeasing Prince Lupesci to say anything about it.

Irina approached a table where a dozen dusty bottles of wine had been set out. She picked up one of the bottles and brushed away the dust coating the label with her thumb, "Is _this_ the wine to be served tonight?" she asked – catching the attention of a passing footman.

"Yes, Ducesa," the boy replied.

"This Austrian swill? Oh, no, no, no! Surely not!" Irina snorted, wrinkling her nose as she turned the bottle over in her hands. She shrugged, "I suppose it'll do for most of the guests, but it's _certainly_ not good enough for my future husband, and he'd be absolutely furious if he knew that _this_ was what we planned to serve him and other honoured guests – like the men from the council, for example."

The boy looked panicked at the thought. He reached for the bottle, "Oh, I–"

"Leave it to me," Irina said as she took the bottle and marched off in the direction of the wine cellar. "Wait here; I'll go and choose something more appropriate."

She squeezed her way through the kitchen and slipped through the door that led down into a small under croft and heavily stocked wine cellar. Under the vaulted ceiling, the shelves held close to a hundred bottles of red and white wine, and Irina's fingers danced over the bottles as she quickly searched for a good replacement.

Finally, her eyes fell upon a couple of dark green bottles of Bikavér – a Hungarian red wine known famously as Bull's Blood. The perfect choice for a Hungarian Bull. Her heart thumped against her ribs as she quickly switched the bottles, glancing over her shoulder before she pulled the cork out with her teeth. She pulled a handful of the dried leaves from the pocket of her dressing gown and then – before one more glance over her shoulder – shoved them down the neck of the bottle. She reapplied the cork and then shook the bottle up – glaring through the dark green glass and even darker liquid as she tried to spot the leaves floating there. Satisfied that they couldn't be seen, she shoved the bottle between her legs and then repeated the entire process with the second bottle.

She emerged breathless from the cellar and grinned as she handed the bottles to the waiting footman. "Here you go," she said. "I want _this_ wine served to myself, Prince Lupesci and the mayor and his wife tonight – and no one else. It's a very rare, very special Hungarian wine bottled with herbs – just make sure you strain it through a cloth before pouring it."

The boy looked puzzled. "Strain it?"

Irina huffed. "Look, I'm personally putting _you_ in charge of this," she said as she dusted off her hands. "And when my future husband – Prince Lupesci wants to know who to thank for serving such a fine wine for the toast, I'll be sure to point him in the right direction. Won't I?"

The boy grinned. "Oh! Thank you, Ducesa!"

Irina nodded and then practically skipped out of the kitchen.

When she returned to her bedroom, she found her bed draped in silk skirts and bodices from her wardrobe – a large trunk sitting open beside it.

Fiebe emerged from the wardrobe looking flustered. She held up a red satin gown and a pink one, "I not know which," she panted. "Which you want, Ducesa? What is for?"

Irina pulled a face. "I don't care, I'm not the one who's going to be wearing them."

Fiebe dropped her shoulders and stared after her mistress with a look over bewilderment as she crossed the room and made her way over to the writing desk.

Irina scooped up the letters and then turned to face Fiebe. "I tried to explain my plan to you this morning before… well," she sighed and shrugged.

Fiebe blinked at her.

"…Put those down and come here," Irina said, waving her over.

Fiebe gently flopped the gowns onto the bed, and then came strolling over – a strange look simmering in her watery blue eyes.

Irina held her gaze. "I need you to go to Parma – to the court of the Duke," she said. "His wife, Amalia is a very dear, very old friend of mine."

Fiebe looked down at the letters. "Parma? I not know this place."

"It's in Italy," Irina replied.

Fiebe's eyes widened. "Italia!" she gasped. "Dumnezuele! I not _leave_ Transylvania! I not leave you!"

"Listen to me; I need you to go there, _today_, and I need you to give the friend I just mentioned _these_ letters. It's _very_ important," Irina explained, taking her maid's hand and placing the letters inside it.

Fiebe was unsure. "I not go – I not leave you with him, Ducesa," she insisted, trying to give the letters back. "I not do it!"

"You _must_," Irina insisted as she turned away and walked over to her vanity – where all her jewels had been placed into a small velvet bag. She reached into the drawer and pulled out her pocket pistol, placing it down next to the black pearls and the other jewels that Fiebe had set aside for her. "You owe me."

"…But, Ducesa – _how _I do this? How I get to Italia?" she asked. "Is prostesc! _Crazy_! I not lady like you. They not listen to me!"

Irina scooped up the bag and shoved it at her. "You are now."

Fiebe looked down at the bag full diamonds sparkling at her and practically dropped it. "Ce?!" squeaked.

"The clothes you've been packing are for you, not for me," Irina said as she made her way over to the bed. She rifled through the gowns laid out, "They might swamp you around the bust a little, but they'll do until you can have them altered. Or do it yourself, I suppose. If I were you I'd take the tansy-coloured evening one – it'll suit your hair colour. The pink polonaise will be good for travel – it's a long journey, it'll take you at least a week I'd say and you want to be comfortable yes, but _elegant_–"

Fiebe followed her in a daze. "Ducesa–"

Irina hummed as she searched for a third gown. She glanced at the mannequin near the window, "And of course, the wedding dress – you put so much work into it, it's only right that you take that as well."

Fiebe plonked the letters and the bag of jewels down onto the bed and then grabbed her mistress, "Ducesa! You _must_ listen to me! I _not_ do this!" she shouted, shaking her head. She sighed and dropped her head, "Nu merit acest lucru – not after what I did to you."

Irina took her hand gently. "I want you to find Ferenc – I trust he's recovered by now?"

Fiebe nodded.

"Find Ferenc and ask him to be here before four – not too early, and _definitely_ not too late," Irina went on. "You're both going to take my carriage, ride straight to Parma and do exactly as I've asked. You'll both be safe there, and if all goes to plan then I'll follow along in a couple of weeks. Do you understand?"

Fiebe let out a long, uncertain sigh before she nodded. "…Yes, Ducesa. I understand."

"Good," Irina replied as she slipped away and walked back over to her writing desk. She slipped into the chair and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment – smoothing it out in front of her. And then she took her quill, dipped it into the ink and began writing a final letter – to Vlad.

"But, Ducesa–"

Irina groaned, "Oh what else? I think I've been _more_ than clear about what I want you to do, Fiebe!" she snapped, turning in her chair. "I don't want to tell you too much about what's going on – it's far too dangerous! It better you don't know what I've got planned."

Fiebe tutted. She pointed at the mannequin, "But, if I take wedding dress – then what _you_ wear? Hm?"

Irina smirked at her; she brushed the quill feathers against her lips. "…I have something else in mind."

* * *

_ **Historical Notes:** _

_**"Bună dimineaţa": **Romanian, **"Good morning."**_

_**"Ferit. Cu un prieten – inţelegeţi?":**_ _Romanian, **"Safe. With a friend - understand?"**_

_ **"Nu merit acest lucru": ** _ _Romanian, **"I don't deserve it."**_

_**Spittelberg: **Spittelberg was (and still is) a district in Vienna that was known for its bars and brothels - in fact there's a building there well known for its sign over the door advertising that Emperor Joseph was seen hightailing it out of there back in the day. Hehe! ;-)_

_**Diamond Girandoles: **Girandoles are a type of drop earring that was very, very popular during the latter part of the 18th century._

_ **Bikavér: ** _ _Bikavér is a type of Hungarian wine, and yep, it's fondly known as Bull's Blood._


	28. Twenty-Eight

Bells across Hermannstadt were tolling five o'clock when Irina finally left the Governor's Palace and began the short walk across the square towards the Jesuit Church. Having given away her only mode of transport, she had little choice but to walk the distance to her own wedding – and _alone_. It was only when she felt the fresh, spring air on her cheeks that she realised it was the first time she'd left the relative safely of the old palace in weeks. She'd been confined there since Christmas – practically under house arrest – partly because she'd had very little desire to re-join the wretched society that had chosen to shun her and partly under the orders of her soon-to-be husband, who'd been all too eager to warn her of what was waiting for her if she chose to venture out. After all, the winter snows might have started to melt into spring, but the frosty rumours had lingered.

But now Irina emerged from her isolation as a new woman, brazen, brave and determined to face the world on her own terms. If the world thought her a witch and a wanton, then she'd show them precisely how witch-like and wanton she could be. She'd certainly dressed for the occasion; Fiebe had raised an eyebrow when – for the very last time – she'd asked her to resurrect a rarely-worn satin sack-back from a casket buried at the bottom of her wardrobe. The vibrant, cochineal swathes of satin had shone like sealing wax when they emerged from within a burial shroud of white muslin – springs of dried lavender having been tucked into the folds of crimson fabric to protect the gown from the hungry moths that might have disturbed its slumber.

It fit her like a second skin – tight at the bodice and billowing below it – and she drew sneering, scandalised looks from townsfolk littered across the square as she held the skirts in one hand and a fistful of limp, black anemones in the other one – still bandaged from being sliced open by broken glass. She clipped in her heels across the cobbled square – extravagant diamond girandoles swinging from her ears, black pearls bouncing around her neck, a letter nestled inside the front of her bodice, and a loaded pocket pistol bobbing heavily against her thigh.

She held her head high and met every glare with a look of defiance – but inside, she was shivering horribly. She'd congratulated herself on ignoring all the what ifs and worries that had popped into her head so far, but when she felt eyes on her back and the white bricks and tower of the church homed into view – she couldn't help but imagine all the things that could potentially go wrong – the perilous journey ahead of her – right up until the moment she'd be able to ride away into the darkness to Vlad and never look back.

When she reached the heavy wooden doors of the church – guarded by two soldiers _(a couple of Lupesci's lackeys, no doubt)_ – she stopped, took a deep breath and allowed herself one last look at the sky from over her shoulder.

She couldn't have hoped for a better day; it had been clear and bright all afternoon – and now that the sun was sagging towards the horizon, the moon had appeared – high and bright in the dusky blue sky. She drew some comfort from its presence; an hour – maybe two – and the sun would _finally_ set. And not just upon the rooftops and steeples of Hermannstadt, but upon _everything_.

Irina lifted a hand and brushed her fingers against the black pearls strung around her neck. As they strolled across the cool surface of each pearl, she thought about her mother and she thought about Vlad; even though they weren't standing there beside her – flanking her, each one holding a hand – she felt as though they were. Comforted by the thought, Irina straightened her spine, took another breath and then strolled inside.

She was met in the draughty vestibule by Herr Carmitru, whose immediate look of relief quickly shifted into one of stunned surprise – his green eyes widening as they drifted the length of her glossy, red bodice.

He bowed his head slightly, his gaze lingering over her breasts. "Duchess," he greeted, offering her his hand. "My, my… look at you."

Irina frowned; in her minds eye she saw Ferenc and his bruised skin – echoes of his time spent as a prisoner of the mayor and his wife. "Mayor," she replied as she unclenched her fist and dropped it into the upturned palm of his hand. "…Or is it _Baron_ now?"

Herr Carmitru stopped mid-stoop – his lips hovering over her knuckles.

"…Oh! Do forgive me, I've been in mourning for so long that I confess I'm a little out of the loop," Irina excused herself with a soft smile. "…You _are_ soon to be made a Baron, are you not?"

The mayor shifted uncomfortably. "…Yes, but I wasn't aware that it was common knowledge," he replied after a beat, kissing her hand.

"You're too modest, Baron!" Irina teased, slapping his shoulder. She arched an eyebrow and lowered her voice, "Because from what I hear you're the talk of the lower town…"

Herr Carmitru glared at her – his mouth opening and closing like a belly-up trout.

Irina grinned; watching him squirm was far too delicious. "…Is your lovely wife here?" she asked brightly, peering around a nearby stone column and chancing a glimpse of the rather meagre congregation. "The soon-to-be Baroness? I'm sure she's overjoyed at the sudden jump in rank."

Herr Carmitru hesitated. "Alas, no, Duchess–"

_But of course_; it was still light outside. Irina pouted, "Oh, what a shame; I was hoping she'd hold my bouquet," she remarked as she glanced down at the drooping, black-eyed blooms she was holding – thrifted by Fiebe from the garlands hanging in the ballroom.

"A pity. She's in bed at the moment. Wasn't feeling herself this morning, I'm afraid," Herr Carmitru lied, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat and shrugging. He smiled, "Said she'd rest up now and then hopefully join us all at the breakfast later."

Irina tutted. "Well, I hope she makes it," she said as she smoothed the pleats of her gown over her panniers – her fingers idly tracing the outline of her pocket pistol. "…I'd _hate_ for her to miss out."

"Indeed," Herr Carmitru replied with a nod, before quickly changing the subject. He offered Irina his arm, "Well then, shall we?"

"…Shall we _what_?" Irina asked.

"Didn't his highness tell you?" he said. "_I'm_ to give you away."

Irina squeezed the flower stems in her hand until she felt her wound open and the warmth of fresh blood staining the bandage. She felt a sharp stab to her heart when she thought of her poor father – and how he'd always spoke distantly of the moment that he'd one day have to give her away – but the feeling was quickly supplanted by a fierce, unrepentant anger. Anger at the thought of being given away by a man who'd had a hand in her father's death and inflicted so much pain on the people he was supposed to protect. And an even fiercer anger towards the man who was behind the decision. The man who had orchestrated it all. The man who was currently waiting impatiently for her at the other end of the aisle.

"I know I can't replace your dear father, of course," he told her. "But hopefully I'll make a worthy understudy."

Irina forced a smile as she took his arm. "No one could _ever_ replace my father," she told him, holding his gaze.

Herr Carmitru shifted his gaze. "Of course," he said as he snapped his fingers at a footman hovering nearby, who immediately hurried away to give the nod for proceedings to start.

When the organ roared from the other end of the aisle and a choir began mumbling their way through a soft Sanctus, Irina put one foot in front of the other and began the long stroll down the aisle towards the altar. After all, the only way forward was forward, she told herself.

It had always been a given that she'd get married someday. She'd suffered through the pox as a child and come out reasonably unblemished and had always known that because of her breeding she'd eventually become a pawn in some dynastic game or another. But out of all the outcomes she'd imagined in her head growing up – of all the Dukes, Princes, Counts, Barons, Kings and Tsars she'd pictured for herself – she'd never – _not once_ – imagined this one.

The rows of pews either side of the aisle were empty – with only a handful of unfamiliar nobles littering the front two or three rows, a few spluttering candelabra illuminating the scandalised looks on their faces as the less than demure looking bride strolled towards them. There were no flowers _(other than the limp handful she was holding)_, no ribbons and no crowds of well-wishers – just the cold and draughty stone surroundings and the even stonier gaze of Archbishop Sigismund.

Prince Lupesci glared down the aisle at her; his lukewarm hazel eyes drawing a severe line from the heaped pile of brown curls twisted on her crown, down to the frilled hem of her gown – gently skimming the flagstones as she walked. He clearly couldn't decide whether he was furious with her or enflamed by the sight of her – his lips pulling into a tight line as he met her defiant gaze – and perhaps any other bride might have turned and run from such a fate. But Irina was undeterred, and when she noticed the prince shuffling his boots and side glancing the muttering congregation she realised – with some delight – that he was embarrassed, and she practically ran the remaining length of the aisle. _Oh it was too perfect!_ She _wanted_ him angry with her, she _wanted_ him to be ashamed of her – and of himself – and once the day was over, he was going to regret ever knowing her.

Irina's lips curled victoriously as she stepped alongside him.

Herr Carmitru handed her over awkwardly – avoiding the prince's gaze as he placed her bandaged hand in his and took her bouquet of flowers. "Your majest… majestic highness," he fumbled as he bowed his head and then scurried aside.

Prince Lupesci gripped her hand tightly as he dragged her towards the altar. "You missed confession," he hissed.

Irina shrugged her lips. "Well, I know that my conscience is clean," she muttered. "…How's yours?"

"You're also late," he added, tightening his grip.

"Well, better late than never, eh?" Irina reminded him – grinning blissfully through the pain. "And I think you should remember the fact that this _should_ have been a case of never in a million years."

The prince silently fumed at her as they approached the altar – and Archbishop Sigismund, who was waiting patiently for them with his bible open.

"…So perhaps you should count yourself lucky that I'm even here at all," Irina added in a whisper as she released her bandaged hand and dutifully crossed herself – noticing patches of fresh blood staining the muslin.

"In nomine Patris et fillii et Spiritus Sancti. _Amen_," Archbishop Sigismund pronounced loudly as he raised his hand and crossed the air with two fingers – blessing the couple and the small congregation in front of him. He glanced down at his open bible, "Domine Deus, qui ab initio mundi beati qui incrementum fetus, ostendere gratiam tuam supplicatiónibus nostris, et mittet auxilium tuum benedíctio super hos fámulos tuos: Alexander Matthias Corvinus Lupesci et Irina Eleanora Adelaide Frederica–"

Irina frowned suddenly; he'd forgotten the all-important 'Maria' tacked on to the end of her name in honour of the Empress. It strangely irritated her for a moment, and then she reminded herself that it didn't matter anymore, and that she wasn't even sure she wanted to offer respect to a woman who had to all intents and purposes completely abandoned her. She shrugged it off.

"–Ut in thoro coniugatorum militantes ut sit proximum mutua caritate, in instar mentis, et communi sanctorum. Amen," he finished with a smile. "Please kneel," he added, gesturing to the red, velvet tuffets in front of the altar rail.

Irina scooped up her satin skirts and knelt – neatly folding and clasping her hands over the top of the wooden altar rail. The pistol sagged against her thigh.

Prince Lupesci joined her. "…I suppose this pathetic display is supposed to embarrass me," he whispered as he sank down beside her, gesturing to her gown with his eyes.

Irina shrugged her shoulders. "I simply thought that I'd remind you of the kind of woman you've decided take as your wife," she replied, lowering her voice as the Archbishop began the ceremony.

"An Austrian whore?" he whispered harshly, his scowling gaze dropping to her bodice.

"A woman who refuses to be anyone other than herself – for _anyone_," she replied, the diamonds in her ears swinging as she turned her head to look at him.

Prince Lupesci tutted.

"And _certainly_ not for some bozgor of watered-down nobility who – for some inexplicable reason – thinks he has a right to be King," she hissed.

The prince glared at her. He looked as though he'd have throttled her if there weren't a church full of witnesses.

Irina raised her eyebrows, "You might want to have a quiet word with your brown-nosing Baron over there, Székelyispán_,_" she added, leaning towards him. She wrinkled her freckled nose, "He's been loose with his words as well as his morals."

Prince Lupesci glanced over his shoulder.

"You know, I thought it… well, _bizarre_ when I found out that the Mayor of Hermannstadt chose to spend his nights – as well as the town's taxes – in a brothel. I mean, positively _scandalous_ – yes – and while there's something to be said for him putting the money back into the local economy, I found it rather strange given he has a young and beautiful wife waiting for him at home," Irina went on wistfully. "But actually, now that I know the truth, it all makes _perfect_ sense. I mean, what's a man supposed to do when his wife sleeps all day and then leaves the marriage bed to lurk in alleyways all night…?"

The prince responded with silence, the voice of the archbishop roaring over his head as he continued on with the ceremony.

"…And it also explains why _you_ – an experienced hunter of bears and beasts – someone who prides himself on tracking elusive quarry – _completely_ failed to track down the monster that attacked me just before Christmas," Irina went on, sending him a severe sideways glance. "You must have been so disappointed when you stopped by that night and found me with barely a bruise."

He blinked at her – not quite in surprise, but almost.

"I mean, what were you _hoping_ would happen, Alexander? Did you think that my grieving father would simply pack up and leave? Leave an empty space for you to oh so conveniently fill with your over-inflated ego?" She scoffed, "That would have been so much easier, wouldn't it? _Far_ less sloppy than forcing a serf to snuff him out while the rest of the town was celebrating Christmas with you."

Prince Lupesci narrowed his eyes. "…Where _is_ that maid of yours?" he asked. "I thought she'd be here."

Irina felt her blood chill when she realised that she'd said too much; she couldn't risk alerting him to her plans. "…I dismissed her."

"_Dismissed_ her?"

She shrugged, "She dropped my favourite perfume. It was gift from the Empress' daughter," she replied. "I thought you'd be happy to see the back of her."

The prince raised an eyebrow. "Happy, no," he replied in a whisper. "Surprised, most definitely."

Irina's heart drummed in her ears as she looked up at the stained-glass windows behind the altar. Hazy sunlight was still seeping through the coloured panes of green and blue glass and pooling across the altar cloth and flagstones. _Hurry up sunset_, she thought to herself; praying for darkness to shroud the church.

Despite all her initial fears and concerns, Fiebe had done everything Irina had asked of her. In a strange reversal, Irina had helped her dress – tonging and powdering her strawberry blonde hair into an elegant updo and lacing her fragile frame into the kind of dress the girl had once watched her mother make but had never expected to wear. When a bruised Ferenc finally appeared – sneaking through the rushed wedding preparations downstairs – he barely recognised the silkworm dripping in diamonds standing in front of him.

After being quickly brought up to speed on the plan it was his turn to get dressed into a footman's uniform that Irina had stolen and set aside for him. Her eyes had widened at the sight of his bruised and broken skin when he shed his rags – his treatment at the hands of Carmelia _painfully_ clear – and for a moment Irina wondered whether it was cruel to even ask him to drive a carriage at breakneck speed all the way to Parma.

"Are you _sure_ you're well enough?" she'd asked as she handed him quite possibly the cleanest shirt he'd ever worn from the other side of her changing screen.

Ferenc peered down at her from over the top – he was so tall that even his bare shoulders could be seen peeping over. His blue eyes were soft and smiling, "Well enough?" he'd snorted as he grabbed the shirt and threw it over his head. When his bruised face emerged, he'd winked at her, "Ducesa, even if I were armless, I'd hold the reins with my teeth."

Irina had smiled.

"You know I'd do anything to protect Fiebe from that curvă – to get her out of this town," he'd said. "And as for you, I'll anything you ask of me. _Always_."

It had been far too easy sousing the driver and locking him up in the stables – and it had been even easier loading the carriage with Fiebe's new casket of clothes and jewels – as well as the all-important letters and documents to spirit away to Amalia in Parma.

Before clambering up into the cabin, Fiebe had turned back to face her old mistress – to say goodbye, to say thank you, to apologise. There were tears in her pale blue eyes, "Ducesa–"

Irina had known exactly what she'd wanted in that moment, and in spite everything, she couldn't bear to let her leave without it. She wrapped an arm around the girl's small shoulders and pulled her close, "_Irina_."

Fiebe sobbed, "You have been so kind to me, and I–"

"I forgive you," Irina had told her, pulling back. "I don't have a brother so I can't imagine how that must have felt. I mean I don't think I'll _ever_ understand… But I _want_ to."

Fiebe shook her head, immediately reaching up to check that the diamond earrings she was wearing hadn't swung clear off her head. "…I not deserve it."

Irina smiled. "You deserve _everything_," she said as she brushed the dog hair from the borrowed velvet cloak Fiebe was wearing. "After everything you've been through – after everything they did to you."

Fiebe looked down, sweeping away her tears.

"Now, no more tears," Irina had told her, forcing her to stand straight. "You're lady now, remember?"

Fiebe sniffed and nodded. She'd grabbed Irina's hand and sent her worried look, "I see you again, yes?"

Irina squeezed her hand. "…I promise," she said as she steered the girl towards the carriage and helped her clamber inside. "You've got all my jewellery, remember," she teased.

Fiebe pulled a face. "It is so heavy," she complained, peering out through the window as the carriage pulled away. "I not know how you wear it!"

Irina had hovered uncertainly in the courtyard long after the carriage had disappeared through the gates, and even longer after Fiebe's waving hand had vanished from view.

Now – as she knelt at the altar and felt Prince Lupesci seething beside her – Irina wondered how far the carriage had travelled. She imagined Ferenc snarling in pain as he viciously whipped the reins – driving the horses faster and faster – and thought about Fiebe curled up in the cabin with the letters resting in her lap. Irina prayed that they were as far away from Hermannstadt as humanly possible, and that the risk had been worth taking.

Prince Lupesci turned and looked at his bride. "…Well. Since you've laid your cards upon the table, allow me to do the same," he whispered. "…And we'll see who has the upper hand."

Irina pretended to ignore him.

"You might have sussed my strategy, Irina, but we're _far_ too late in the game for it to be of any use to you going forward whatsoever," he warned. "And while it's true – _yes_ – the final trick is yet to be played for; I _guarantee_ that I've a far better chance of winning it than you do. The deck has always been stacked in my favour; any attempts to steal the game from under my nose will end in a whitewash, or worse."

Irina arched an eyebrow. "…Don't be so sure."

"You think I don't know that you're banking everything on that – that _Jack of Hearts_ you've been hiding under your skirts?" Prince Lupesci purred. "…The man in black who escorted you back to town after you disappeared on our hunt? The man who so gallantly stepped in to rescue you when you were attacked – only to then disappear as mysteriously as he appeared?"

Irina felt an uncomfortable lump form in the back of her throat. She almost forgot to breathe, "You can't accuse a player of sleight of hand without proof."

The prince leaned in closer. "…The one who was seen leaving the Governor's Palace in the early hours of this morning – flanked by two rather familiar-looking hounds?" he whispered angrily. "_Your_ hounds. Whom I failed to see when I dropped by this morning."

Irina turned and met his furious gaze.

"…There's your proof," he said. "I'm merely surprised you'd risk the game on such a low scoring card."

Irina shrugged her lips. "…What makes you so sure that it was a Jack," she challenged, "and not the _King_ of Spades?"

Prince Lupesci narrowed his eyes. He snarled, "Well, whatever – and _whoever_ – he claims to be, I'm removing him from play," he threatened. "He won't set foot on the square without me knowing about it – and if he does, he'll be dead before dawn."

Archbishop Sigismund closed his bible and gestured for the couple and the congregation to stand. He made the sign of the cross and then asked Irina and Alexander to face each other as he began reciting the vows.

Irina sighed as she crossed herself and faced her soon to be husband. "You seem to be forgetting one thing, Alexander," she replied softly, the heavy bracelet of diamonds she was wearing sparkling under the church candlelight. "I'm a Duchess; I've a near inexhaustible stash of diamonds tucked up my sleeve."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slightly late update - I'm losing track of days!


	29. Twenty Nine

When the final rays of daylight retreated and gave way to dusk, Vlad appeared on the square. Once the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, the light began to fade quickly – the hazy, golden puddles of sunset over the cobbles and on the rooftops almost instantly evaporating into shadow.

He'd promised Irina that he'd stay away – that he'd allow her plan to play out to completion and that he'd allow her to protect his identity – but when his blue eyes had opened to the stone ceiling of Poenari's undercroft, a sense of dread that he'd rarely experienced in his lengthy afterlife crawled over him like coffin flies.

He'd raced to the top of the tower and gazed over the twilight-touched landscape – from the snow-capped lower Carpathians to the north, over the piqué quilt of pine forests to the rooftops of Hermannstadt to the west. When he breathed in the cool evening air, he breathed in the familiar smell of Poenari – of the dust and the fire-damaged beams sunk into the snow, and the faint lingering perfume of everything that it had once been before – and when he cast the net out further, he could smell the road below and the waking forests lining it. He could smell wolves on the prowl and weeds floating in the lake, and two hounds snoozing in his bed – but no Irina.

After plonking down a golden serving bowl full of icy lake water for them to drink, he'd insisted that they sleep on the floor – on an old bear skin rug that he'd pulled out of storage for them – but as soon as one defied his orders and leapt up into the bed, the other one had followed. They'd slept like stones beside him – two very warm, very heavy stones – and surprisingly, he hadn't hated it. He'd found that the scent of their mistress clung pleasantly to their fur.

_Irina_. He left immediately, and as soon as he'd stepped onto the square, he could smell her. That heady perfume of rosewater and tobacco. And blood. Panic seized him as he followed a strengthening trail of it from the Governor's Palace all the way to the doors of the Jesuit Church on the other side of the square – where he stopped and waited, listening to the mumbled chatter coming from inside.

"…You know, I was hoping you would show up," a woman purred from behind.

Vlad turned towards the owner of the voice; towards a woman dressed in an elegant pink, satin gown, with more precious stones dangling from her ears and neck than a crystal chandelier, and a tri-corn hat perched neatly on top of a cloud of pinned blonde curls. She was flanked by two men – two guards who were wrapped in furs and resembled bears in height and brawn.

The woman marvelled at him – her blue eyes wide. "…It _is_ you," she gasped, holding a gloved hand to her lips as her gaze strolled his body from brow to boots. She raised an eyebrow, "Your style's altered _slightly_, I admit. To be expected, I suppose; after all, it _has_ been over a century – but I do miss the pearls – I've always been fond of men who _wear_ their wealth. Your hair's a _little_ longer, perhaps… but no, it is you."

Vlad observed her without emotion as she took a step towards him, swinging her hips playfully.

She stopped in front of him – peering up at him through her lashes. "…_Vladislaus __Drăculea_," she whispered in amazement.

Vlad looked down at her. "…I don't believe I've had the pleasure, my lady."

The woman scoffed and rolled her eyes. "The pleasure? Oh, you have, _believe_ me," she drawled as she turned and walked away. "_All_ the pleasure."

"…Carmelia, I presume," Vlad guessed.

The woman swirled suddenly and grinned – the ruffled hems of her petal-pink skirts rustling against the cobbles. "Oh, so you _do_ remember me!"

Vlad was confused. "Only what I've been told about you by others, I'm afraid."

Carmelia's sunny expression suddenly became thunderous. "Then I'll have to remind you," she snarled through her fangs, snapping her gloved fingers at the men beside her.

They surged towards Vlad with silver chains, but in an instant, he'd moved and flanked them – gripping them both by the neck and bringing their heads together with an audible crunch. One of the men slumped to the cobbled ground and didn't get back up, while the other simply staggered backwards in a daze – the silver chain swinging in his closed fist.

When the guard regained his senses and stumbled forward a second time, Vlad was ready and stepped aside at the last moment; a quick shove was all it took to send the man tumbling headfirst to the floor. He growled as he stepped over him – kicking away the chains with the toe of his boot before he reached down and grabbed the guard's throat – raising him up by the neck.

Carmelia tutted and rolled her eyes, and whilst Vlad's back was turned she scooped up the discarded silver chains in her gloved hand and easily looped them tightly around his bare neck. "I can see I'll have to remind you of your manners too," she said, dragging them back.

Vlad dropped the guard. He roared as the silver burned into his throat – his skin sizzling like meat on a griddle.

Carmelia gripped the chains like a leash, pulling Vlad down to her eye level. "…You know, I've been thinking, Vlad," she whispered, smirking as she watched his skin burn. "It's not every day you cross paths with another vampire – and an old acquaintance at that! We should _seize_ this opportunity and go for a drink–"

Vlad struggled and snarled as Carmelia's gaze drifted off to the side, to the body of one of the guards – sprawled limply across the cobbles.

"–Get _reacquainted_," she suggested softly. "What do you say? After all, we've _so_ much to catch up on."

* * *

Vlad soon found that struggling only made the pain worse. Much worse. It had been a long time since he'd felt the burn of silver, and every twist and tug of his arms and torso only forced the chains binding him to the chair to bite deeper into his flesh. They sunk through the top layer of skin like hot cheese wire – melting it away, cutting bloodied and angry trenches into his flesh more painful than anything he'd ever experienced – even when he was alive.

From the square, he'd been taken into an old building near the fortifications – a red-bricked bastion adorned with medieval weapons and tapestries, including a handful of shields emblazoned with a familiar-looking heraldic wolf. The guard that had been left standing from their confrontation outside the church had dragged him by the chains like a dog into a windowless armoury – the thick stone walls were hung with brown and grey wolf pelts, whilst tall cabinets held a selection of hunting paraphernalia, from bear snares to various crossbow with their accompanying bolts.

Whilst Vlad sat rigid in the chair, his eyes roamed around the room – Irina's description of Prince Lupesci The Hunter fresh in his mind. The Huntress, meanwhile, was feasting on her most recent kill.

"You know, I must say that I'm quite hurt that you don't remember me," Carmelia remarked as she pulled her pink and pillowy lips away from the guard's neck – his warm blood glossing them. She was holding his bulk up against a nearby wall – standing on the tips of her toes to drink from him.

Vlad glared at her. "…I remember being stabbed in the shoulder by a coward in a cloak," he said, wincing as he spoke – chain bobbing uncomfortably against his throat.

Carmelia dropped the guard. She puzzled for a moment, then blinked in surprise, "You mean it was _you_ who came rushing to rescue my little sparrow that night?"

Vlad lifted a dark eyebrow as the guard slumped lifelessly across the floor – sharing the look with the other slightly livelier guard who was standing watch in the doorway.

Carmelia pulled a handkerchief from of her bodice and began dabbing her lips and chin. "My, for all our incredible abilities and heightened senses we're really quite useless at recognising another of our kind, aren't we?" she tutted. "I had no idea it was you! You'll have to forgive me; I tend to become a tad delirious once I've fed."

Crossing paths with another vampire was rare; there were simply too few walking the world – weaving in and out of society and its shadows – and Vlad had could count how many times he'd met another on three fingers. "…We're built to hunt the living–"

Carmelia threw the soiled handkerchief over her shoulder. It landed on the dead guard's chest.

"–Not the dead," Vlad explained – his voice hoarse with pain.

His captor shrugged and then clasped her hands together excitedly, "Such _history_ we share!"

Vlad disagreed, "One meeting in a darkened alleyway… does not a history make."

Carmelia slipped gracefully into the empty chair that had been placed him front of his, neatly smoothing her skirts. She rested her head in her hands, tapping her fingers against her rouged cheeks, "Speaking of which, you _have_ to tell me what she tastes like. From one predator to another, I'd just _love_ to know," she purred. "_That_ was a meal I was very much looking forward to, I have to say."

Vlad struggled – snarling as he felt the silver burn his skin with an audible sizzle.

Carmelia tutted. "Don't like to bite and brag?" she teased, pouting. "Each to their own. I'm sure Prince Lupesci will allow me a sip of that vintage at some point."

"Over my undead body," Vlad growled, as he caught a whiff of the smell of his own skin burning away.

Carmelia leaned back in her chair. She waved a hand, "Yes, well – we'll get to that. But for the moment, we're discussing the past, _not_ the future."

Vlad gazed blankly at her.

She blinked her blue eyes in amazement. "…You _really_ don't remember, do you?"

Vlad sneered at her.

"…How extraordinary," she remarked.

"Refresh my memory," he said.

Carmelia leaned forward. "It shouldn't _need_ refreshing," she spat.

Vlad held her gaze like a wild animal trapped in a snare – which wasn't all that far from the reality.

"_Iad!_" she exclaimed. "You'd think a man would recognise his own daughter – his own flesh and blood!"

Vlad's blue eyes widened. "…Daughter?"

Carmelia fluttered her lashes and nodded. "Mm hm," she replied. "I really had no idea that I had such a famous father!"

"…Impossible," Vlad rasped.

She waved a hand, "Well, I'm not your daughter in the _traditional_ sense, I suppose. But I'm of your blood," she told him. "…You _made_ me. I'm your heir, your progeny, your... little princess."

"…No," Vlad replied, shaking his head – snarling through the pain it caused. He tightened his grip on the arms of the chair, "I've never – I _wouldn't_."

Carmelia smiled. "Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but, _yes_, you did," she replied. "A hundred and forty-nine years and eight months ago… if we're being precise. That's an _awful_ lot of birthdays and name days you've missed, father. But - no matter - I'm not one to hold a grudge."

Vlad stared through the flagstones between them and tried to place himself in time; he landed at the beginning of the seventeenth century. He'd been just shy of his hundred and fiftieth year on earth, and – as he recalled – by all accounts had _not_ been dealing with it very well – in fact he'd been in the midst of a sort of after-life crisis. After more than a hundred years wandering Europe, he'd staggered back to Transylvania drunk on blood and violence, and with his mind on revenge.

"It was Sânziene – the hottest I can remember," Carmelia said. She closed her eyes, "I can still feel the sun on my cheeks and the taste of sweat on my lips… I'd spent the whole day gathering flowers to impress some boy – whose name escapes me – and then I was picked by Prince Bethlen's bride out of _all_ the girls there that night to lead the dance around the fire in the square. _Me_."

Vlad's breath stuck in his throat as he cast his mind back and saw the echo of flames dancing in his head – and flashes of girls in white petticoats dancing with them – melding together. Recalling those days was like peering into muddy water – as soon as you made out the vague lines and shape of a memory, it was almost instantly washed away.

"When the dancing was over, I didn't want to go home – I didn't want it all to end, you see. I didn't want everything to go back to how it'd been before," Carmelia said – similarly gazing off into the distance. "I _hated_ my father – my stepfather," she corrected with a slight shrug. "And so, I walked – I walked out of the gates and out of Hermannstadt… and do you know what? I don't think I meant to go back."

Vlad narrowed his eyes as he recalled the rushing waters of a river, and the outline of a girl washing her feet in the waters of the weir. "…_Fuck_," he mouthed.

Carmelia watched his expression shift slowly as he remembered what had happened next. "Is that a flicker of recollection, I see?"

"…But I drained you dry," he said.

Carmelia arched an eyebrow, "Not quite."

"You were dead," he insisted, and then remembered how she'd viciously bitten down on his hand.

"I was _abandoned_," Carmelia snarled, rising from her seat. "_You_ abandoned me."

Vlad watched as she walked away, strolling over to one of the crossbow cabinets on the other side of the small room. He glanced at the body of the guard, dead on the floor; he felt a deep, curdling dread in the pit of his stomach as he considered all the lives Carmelia had cruelly taken in the century or so that she'd been prowling the shadows. All that blood spilled was on his hands. How could he have been so careless!

Carmelia leaned over the cabinet, smoothing her fingers over the cool glass and peering down through it into the velvet case below. "I was _completely_ alone," she complained, her fingers tracing the ghostly outline of a crossbow - missing from the collection it seemed. "I had _no_ idea of what I was, and even less of an idea of how to be it. I was left to work all that out on my own. Can you even imagine how hard that was for me?"

Vlad hung his head, his dank hair hanging in his eyes. "…I'm sorry," he offered. "I know how painful the transition can be… It's why I chose never to sire any – well, any _more_ of my kind."

Carmelia swirled to face him.

"It must be a choice made," he told her with a heavy heart. "Not a curse inflicted."

She found her way back over to the empty chair – the wooden joints creaking as she lowered herself into it.

Vlad looked at her – and then he asked her the question that he was dreading the answer to. "Did you – have you sired any–?"

Carmelia scoffed. "No."

Vlad almost sighed in relief.

"Why on earth would I do that?" she went on, laughing. "I didn't want to have children when I was alive, why on earth would I want them now that I'm dead? Besides, why would I ever want to _share_ such power? Not when it would only serve to dilute my own."

He frowned at her.

"…Which rather conveniently brings me to you," Carmelia sighed, bringing her hands together as if she were about to pray. She tapped them against her lips, "What am I to do with _you_, father dear?"

Vlad clenched his fists in his silver bindings.

"As I've said, I don't _enjoy_ sharing and so it certainly wouldn't do to have another set of fangs stealing my fare," she pondered. "No, _I'm_ the farmer here and this is _my_ hen coup. Can't abide a fox sniffing around, you understand."

"I've no appetite for serfs," Vlad sneered. "I only feed on the willing. _Nowadays_."

Carmelia pulled a face. "Oh. How dull," she drawled. "I'm a little disappointed, honestly – given your history. Although that _does_ solve the question of whether there's enough to go around. Fine."

Vlad narrowed his eyes at her.

Carmelia tapped her fingers against her lips. "Now, Prince Lupesci? Soon to be _King_ Lupesci – he wants you dead," she went on. "Because, you see, he _also_ doesn't like to share – not his kingdom, not his wealth, and _definitely_ not his wife."

Vlad scowled at her suddenly.

"Now, I _could_ kill you," Carmelia went on.

"You could try," Vlad countered.

"I doubt it'd be difficult; there are silver crossbow bolts right over there in fact – and honestly, I'm quite intrigued to find out what exactly happens when a vampire dies – no one ever thought to tell me, you see." She shrugged her lips, "I'm sure I'd be _well_ rewarded for taking out the competition by the new King when he takes his throne - though it would be a _tremendous_ shame to lose you, and just when we're getting reacquainted!"

Vlad watched her deliberate.

Carmelia suddenly smirked at him. "But then you and I both know that Kings come and go – and hostile takeovers are rather risky affairs; all that blood, and dick swinging could be for absolutely nothing in the end," she went on. She grinned, "Or, you and I could make _another_ arrangement. An arrangement that would leave _me_ with everything I've ever wanted for myself, and you with his widow – which is what we both know that you _really_ want."

"…She hasn't married him yet."

Carmelia sent him a sympathetic look. "Oh yes; I'm afraid you turned up at the church a smidge too late," she told him. She shrugged her lips, "Which reminds me, by now I imagine they'll be raising a glass to the happy couple! And I _certainly_ don't want to miss that," she added as she stood up once again. "So, if you'll excuse me, I must be off; we'll have to continue our little family reunion later. But do think about my offer – we'll talk finer details when I return."

Vlad glowered after her as she sauntered off towards the door, scooping up her gloves and cloak along the way. "You _may_ be of my blood, but you're no child of mine," he spat.

Carmelia glanced over her shoulder. "…Are you hungry?" she asked. "I can have a little something brought if you are? I can have them served up in a cup if you like; you wouldn't even have to lift a finger."

Vlad snarled and thrashed in response – hissing when the silver burned into his flesh.

"Don't let him out of your sight," Carmelia warned the guard. She pointed at the corpse of his comrade, "Else _that_ will be you, understand?"

The guard bowed his head. "Yes, Baroness."

"Good," she said, offering a final smirk over her shoulder before she left. "I'll be back after the bedding ceremony," she called cheerfully from the end of the corridor.

* * *

After more than an hour bound and burning the chair, Vlad could feel his body beginning to weaken and perspire. Sweat dripped from the hair falling across his forehead and his limbs had begun to feel heavy an ache, while his raw and open wounds oozed with dark blood. When – _if_ – he managed to escape, then he'd need to feed soon. He only hoped that Irina would be safe until he could reach her.

He couldn't believe that she'd _actually_ married the man. Had that all been part of her plan? He could still smell her blood – or at least the memory of it – fresh and clotting over her skin; he wondered what had happened to her and began to worry that something had gone terribly wrong – that her wild and brilliant plan had at best been shunted off course – or at worst, had failed. All that mattered now was getting out and getting as far away from Hermannstadt and Transylvania as possible.

He was distracting himself wondering where they might go once the night was over, when he suddenly detected a sweet and familiar aroma drifting in the air; an aroma that he'd been patiently waiting for – _hoping_ for.

_Marzipan._

Vlad's head snapped up. He glanced at the guard standing in the doorway – at the back of his thick neck, red and bruised from where he'd grabbed it before. He could smell his blood pooling beneath the skin – perfumed slightly with the smell of black powder and silver ore. The man's sallow skin and slightly bowed legs were signs of a child raised in darkness – in pits in the mountains around Braşov.

"…So, tell me," Vlad rasped.

The guard barely flinched at the sound of Vlad's voice. He pretended to ignore it.

"…How does a son of the Şcheii end up working for a bozgor?" Vlad asked.

The guard turned his head slightly.

"You're a long way from the pits, prietenul meu," Vlad observed.

"I am _not_ your friend," the guard spat over his shoulder.

Vlad shrugged his lips. "…Perhaps not," he agreed. "…But neither are the Carmitru – and nor is Lupesci. Why throw your lot in with them?"

The guard snorted, "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't I? I think your friend over there would agree with me," Vlad added, nodding at the dead body lying across the flagstones between them.

The guard turned away from the door – removing his attention from the corridor to the corpse in front of him. He gulped, "That was _you_ – _you_ did that."

Vlad hesitated – his gaze shifted. "…_I_ gave him a headache," he corrected. "Baroness Carmitru was the one who made things a little more... _permanent_."

The guard opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly stopped himself. He frowned.

"And I think she made it very clear that you were next, prieten," Vlad added as he noticed a flash of yellow silk – like sunshine – floating behind the guard's large frame.

He smiled as he watched a long pair of pale arms quickly wrap their way around the guard's shoulders – fingers biting into his leathery uniform – whilst a pair of legs locked around his waist. Leonie's soft, dimpled face appeared suddenly in the crook of the guard's neck – bright blue eyes flashing and rouged lips smirking – before she sunk her fangs down into the gristled flesh of his neck and drank.

And drank.

...And _drank_.

Eventually, when the guard began to totter from side to side – life draining swiftly from his eyes – Leonie let go. She hopped down and watched in surprise as the guard toppled forward like a felled pine – his fall broken by the body of the other guard.

She pulled a face; her chin and nose were painted with blood. "…Did I do it right?"

Vlad raised his eyebrows. "…Well, usually we don't drink the _whole_ human," he told her. "But on this occasion – and since it's your first time – I'm willing to ignore that slight faux pas."

As soon as he'd walked away from the Governor's Palace and from Irina, it had occurred to Vlad that some reinforcements might not be such a bad thing. He'd made a promise to Leonie and had decided that it was time to make good on it. And so, instead of heading straight back to Poenari, he'd made a brief stop at the Capota de Trandafir. She'd been surprised to see him _(and had raised a peculiar blonde eyebrow at the two dogs following him like shadows)_ – but had allowed him in without question. They'd talked for a long time – he'd told her everything – and although he'd hesitated before finally allowing her what she wanted most – his blood – he felt strangely calm about the whole thing.

He'd taken her down into the dark cellar of the brothel – beneath the hat shop that it masqueraded as during the day – and told her to wait for dusk, and then to come and find him immediately.

He'd worry about explaining himself to Irina later.

Leonie grinned suddenly. She licked her lips. "…That tasted… it was like–" she rambled wildly – excitedly – as she searched for the right word. She stretched her arms up into the air and sighed, "It was _wonderful_."

"Right, well–"

She stared at her hands and then brought them to her cheeks – feeling them flush with warm blood. "…I can feel it," she muttered in wonder. "I feel it under my skin… And it has never felt so smooth!"

Vlad sighed. "Leonie–"

"I never feel so _strong_! Did you see how I grab him! _Him_! Such a bear of a man!" she went on, picking up her primrose yellow skirts and skipping over the guard's body with a slight giggle.

Vlad lifted a dark brow; he'd never heard her giggle before. "While I understand that this is all very new and that you're excited–"

Leonie froze and gasped. "I smell another man… _more_," she mumbled, waltzing around the small room – led by her tiny, turned up nose. She closed her eyes and smiled, "I can smell sweat on their skin… brandy on their lips. I smell _you_, Conta! Your coat, your beard. As soon as I wake in the cellar, I knew _exactly_ how to find you–"

"Leonie!" Vlad barked.

She turned and blinked at him.

"Will you _please_ stop and help me?" he ordered, motioning to the silver chains binding him to the chair.

Leonie hurried over to him. "Oh! Scuze, Conta!" she replied as she reached out to untangle the silver chains binding one of Vlad's wrists.

"No, don't–!"

When Leonie's bare fingertips brushed up against the silver, she screamed – spitting up her lungs in pain.

Vlad sent her an impatient look. He tutted, "Second lesson," he began, "_Never_ touch silver. _Ever_. If you touch it, your skin will burn, and if you ingest it – or you happen to be stabbed or shot with silver – then you'll die. Understand?"

Leonie sucked on her fingertips. "Is good that I like gold jewellery," she grumbled, reaching into one of the pockets hidden among her skirts and pulling out a pair of satin gloves.

Vlad sat still as she delicately untangled the silver chains from around his wrists and neck. "You've a lot to learn," he told her, wincing as the chains pulled away – tearing a layer of skin away with them. "And – as promised – I _will_ teach you. But first I have to go and find Irina."

Leonie frowned as she threw the chains to the side and stepped back. "…What I do now?"

Vlad staggered forward. "You are to go _immediately_ to Poenari," he told her as she reached out and caught him.

She brushed a hand over his cheek. "…You are weak, Conta," she realised. "You have to feed–"

Vlad shook his head. "I have to find Irina."

Leonie sent him an uncertain look. "But, Conta–"

Vlad took her face in his hands, "You promised you'd listen to me. That was the deal we made."

"Yes, but–"

"So please do so."

Leonie looked worried.

"You've done beautifully - but now you're in danger," he told her. "Go to Poenari – _immediately_ – and wait for me there. Understand?"

She nodded slowly. "Da."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then moved towards the door. "Behave yourself," he added in warning, before slipping off down the corridor.

* * *

_ **Historical Notes:** _

_**"Bozgor":** Derogatory term for a Hungarian._

_**"Şcheii":** A deeply patriotic, Romanian area in Brasov - traditionally a hot bed for revolutionary activity._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait on this one - I promise I'm not going to leave you all high and dry - both the final chapter and epilogue are done and dusted, I just need to get my ass into gear when it comes to posting.
> 
> (...Okay, I might gone a bit "James Bond under interrogation" over the top with this one. I just couldn't help myself - sorry if it's a bit too... "villain in a cape twirling their mustache". Stay tuned for the big finale in Chapter 30. ;-) )


	30. Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, some graphic violence coming up towards the end.

Irina hovered alongside her new husband as the guests for the wedding breakfast steadily streamed into the ballroom of the Governor's Palace – all smiling, all offering brief words of congratulations as they passed by. The eager smiles and vigorous handshakes were _all_ for Prince Lupesci, Irina noted; while the wives and young ladies sneered at her as they passed _(all still clearly under the impression that she'd seduced the town's most eligible bachelor from right under their noses)_ the local nobles barely glanced her way – all of them hoping for a promotion of rank or a piece of the new Lupesci regime. While Alexander put on a dazzling performance as the new Governor _(and secretly soon to be King of Transylvania)_ – smirking and rolling in their flattery like a pig in filth – Irina fidgeted impatiently beside him, turning the freshly-placed gold wedding band around her ring finger and glancing at the door.

It seemed strange to think that barely a few months ago she'd been standing in the very same ballroom – in almost exactly same position near the faded medieval mural – newly arrived from Vienna and without a clue as to the months of turmoil that were ahead of her. She'd known nothing of Hungarian Princes, Conclaves and Vampires back then; she'd been blissfully unaware of the two men eyeing her from opposite sides of the room – one hoping to ruin her, the other hoping to resurrect a piece of herself she'd long tried to forget. And even though she might have chosen another path for herself if she'd had the chance to go back, she was resolute in her decision to reach the end of this one – _whatever_ the cost. Resolute to have her revenge and _never_ look back.

She brushed her fingers across the black pearls strung around her neck as she fumed and fizzled quietly like a fuse – creeping closer and closer to blowing the roof off and bringing the bricks of her husband's carefully constructed world down around him.

As she glanced around the ballroom – looking from the tall windows overlooking the Piata Mare, to the overwhelmingly Hungarian crowd of guests – she plotted her final move, watching as all the pieces began to fall into place. She smirked softly to herself when her eyes fell on Doctor Tarsus and Herr Carmitru deep in conversation nearby, and felt a flutter beneath her ribs as she watched the servants buzz about the room handing out glasses to guests and filling them generously with wine ready for the toast; she hoped that her Dog's Mercury-infused bottle of Bikavér hadn't become muddled with the rest.

Finally, once all the guests had arrived, Prince Lupesci took an empty glass from a passing servant and beat it with his signet ring. The crisp sound chimed out through the crowded room – cutting through the drone of conversation until all the guests were silent and looking his way.

"_Köszönöm_," he said, lifting his voice until it echoed off the panelled walls. "Köszönöm to you _all_ for being here to celebrate with us this evening. And while I'm aware that many of you find the idea of a wedding on Ash Wednesday a little unorthodox – understand that your presence here tonight will _not_ go unnoticed."

Irina offered a small smile to the servant who suddenly appeared in front of her and offered her an empty glass.

"And of course, Köszönöm to his eminence Archbishop Sigismund for so _willingly_ performing the ceremony," the prince went on, gesturing to the archbishop who was standing in the corner – away from everyone else. "And for joining us tonight; I know you've ashes and alms to distribute and a mass to perform later."

The Archbishop nodded but appeared thoroughly uncomfortable. When a passing servant offered him a glass, he shook his head and waved it away.

Prince Lupesci looked down – peering into the empty glass he was holding as he considered his next words. "…What you've all come to witness – here, tonight," he began, looking up and around the room, "is not _just_ the beginning of a marriage – of a joint venture in family and legacy – but also the beginning of a new legacy for _us_, for Hermannstadt – or as it's soon to be formally known, _Nagyszeben_ – but also for Transylvania as a whole."

A hushed murmur arose around the room at the idea of Hermannstadt reverting to its old Hungarian name.

"You see, because while the Empress _has_ appointed me as Governor, I can tell you all right now – as I'm amongst loyal friends – that I have absolutely no intention of bowing to Austria," he announced, glancing furtively at Irina.

Irina chose not to rise to his feint and instead simply sent him a pathetic look, bolstered by the sight of the footman who was walking towards her brandishing the poisoned bottle Bikavér. Her heart thudded.

"My intention my friends is _this_: to peacefully free ourselves of Austrian rule, and to govern Transylvania independently as its own sovereign state – as the great Kingdom that it once was and _will_ be again!" Prince Lupesci cheered. "…With help, of course, from my loyal council," he added, offering a hand to the members of the Carpathian Conclave faithfully flanking him like a pack of wolves – from Doctor Tarsus to the brown-nosing Baron of Braşov.

The responding applause was slow and staggered – the guests confused, but curious.

Irina chewed on her cheeks as she offered a slow and sarcastic clap. They were very pretty lies but lies none the less – and she wondered whether the guests would have clapped at all if they'd known that Alexander had no intention of doing anything peacefully. What would they say if they knew that he instead planned to wage _war_ with Austria – to strike off the shackles between Hermannstadt and Vienna with a sword, rather than politely asking for the key?

"I have great plans for us all – that is a vow I make to you tonight," Prince Lupesci went on confidently – gesturing with his empty glass. He turned to Irina, "Alongside those I have made to my new wife."

Irina bridled as he took a step towards her.

"A _true_ beauty – I think you'll agree – and a worthy Queen," he said, reaching out to stroke her cheek, "A woman of _impeccable_ breeding, who – as an Austrian by birth – I have no doubt will do all she can to ease our transition from servant to master."

Irina stood as still as a post as the prince leaned in and kissed her – seizing her lips in a soft caress and wrapping an arm around her bodice. She gripped her empty glass so tightly that she was surprised she didn't snap the stem.

The guests cooed and clapped as the last of the wine was poured out.

Prince Lupesci grinned at her as he pulled away, whispering, "The game is mine, Irina – as are you."

Irina offered him a sneering smile, watching as the footman began filling the council's glasses from the poisoned bottle – the wine trickling like blood into each glass. "Well, then," she sighed, "I suppose there's nothing left for me to do Alexander but toast to your victory."

"For now – the night is still young," he replied as his hand slipped from her bodice – his fingertips trailing across the silk.

Irina tutted. "…You know, I quite agree."

The prince nodded proudly and then turned his attention back to his guests, "Why is my glass still empty?" he shouted, holding it up.

Irina's heart thundered in her chest as she watched the footman appear in front of them with the bottle – a scrap of cheese cloth tied around the neck to strain the wine, just as she'd ordered.

Prince Lupesci frowned at the approaching bottle. "What's this?" he asked, flicking the cloth draped around the neck of the bottle like a petticoat.

"…It's Bull's Blood, your highness," the footman explained, bowing his head. He extended the bottle, tipping it over the glass. "A rich, full-bodied Hungarian wine."

Prince Lupesci stopped him. "No, I couldn't. It wouldn't be right," he said, dropping his hand over his glass.

Irina held her breath.

"Tonight, I will honour my new wife by drinking _Austrian_ wine," he announced, offering Irina a wide smile.

Irina's stomach dropped as the footman hurried away with the bottle and with her plan, while another stepped in with a fresh bottle of Austrian white wine and filled their glasses to the brim. Still, at least Doctor Tarsus, Herr Carmitru and the other men from the council were about to toast to their own demises.

Prince Lupesci lifted his glass. "To the new _Kingdom_ of Transylvania. _Egészségedre_!" he toasted loudly before throwing a gulp of wine back.

The guests and the council followed, all lifting their glasses and taking a generous swig.

Irina side glanced them over the rim of her glass – watching as Herr Carmitru licked the dregs of wine from his lips and Doctor Tarsus, as he swirled the wine in his glass and took a generous swig. The Dogs Mercury had been percolating in the bottle all day – she doubted it would take long for the poison to take effect.

Prince Lupesci raised his glass a second time, "And of course to my new wife, Princess Irina Lupesci, the Duchess of Brunswick," he said, turning to face her once more.

Irina glared at him; he may not have soused himself with the poison as planned, but she was still determined to put poison to his own plans. Besides, she still had a loaded pistol in her pocket. It was supposed to only be a backup – a last resort in case Carmelia turned up to cause trouble – but now it might be her only escape.

"May our marriage be long in years," he toasted, "And our heirs be _many_ in number. Egészségedre_!_"

Irina smiled and lifted her glass. "Prost," she replied calmly before draining most of the glass.

The guests did the same, a deathly silence falling over the ballroom as they all toasted the bride and then took a sip.

Prince Lupesci nodded, "And now–"

Irina suddenly stepped out from her husband's shadow, "Actually, _I'd_ like to make a toast myself…"

The eyes of the whole room fell upon the woman in red satin as she stepped away from her husband and from the council and strolled into the centre of the ballroom. She ascended like a soprano before her final curtain call – full of air in her lungs and ready to roar.

"I _know_ it's highly unconventional for the bride to speak at her wedding – or at all in fact," she began, shrugging her shoulders slightly. "But then, you all know me to be a rather _unconventional_ woman by nature. Aside from my title as Duchess of Brunswick – and now _Princess_ Lupesci," she added, gesturing to her new husband – who narrowed his eyes, "You've all very kindly seen fit to grant me some other – some rather more _informal_ titles." She strolled slowly, her gaze sifting accusingly from one noble to another. "…Witch. Whore. Murderess, to name but a few. And for that I'd just like to say–"

When the ballroom door suddenly creaked loudly and swung inwards, the whole room turned and watched as Carmelia slipped inside.

Irina grinned. "Ah! And from one unconventional woman to another – Baroness Carmitru!" she announced excitedly. "You're _just_ in time for my toast – do grab a glass and join us. Can someone pour Melia some wine?" she asked, waving over one of the servants serving the wine.

Carmelia raised a blonde eyebrow as she swept across the ballroom to join her husband, politely turning down the offer of a full glass from a hovering footman.

"…Oh, you're not drinking?" Irina observed out loud.

Melia waved a hand and tutted. "…I'm observing _Lent_, your Highness," she lied. She waggled her finger, "Shame on you for trying to make me break it!"

Irina narrowed her eyes. "Oh, of course. Forgive me for trying to lead you astray," she replied, gesturing with her glass. "…Now, where was I?"

Prince Lupesci stepped in. "Irina," he warned, gently hooking her by the crook of her arm, "There's _really_ no reason for you to–"

She gently teased herself free, "Oh but there is!" she replied, swirling away. "I want to toast my new husband."

The prince sent her a stormy look – thunder rumbling beneath his carefully polished veneer.

"I want to… sing his praises!" she went on, gesturing wildly as she stepped backwards – away from him. "I want everyone here to know _exactly_ the kind of man that he is. I think it's about time you earned some informal titles of your own, your highness."

He chased her slowly – prowling towards her. "Irina, I'm warning you–"

The prince stopped abruptly at the sound of a glass smashing across the floor.

The sound of the shatter drew glances from around the room; everyone turned their eyes to Doctor Tarsus, who – red-faced and rigid – suddenly spluttered and clutched his stomach – leaning heavily on his wife for support.

Irina shrugged her lips and searched for the archbishop in the crowd of guests, "Archbishop Sigismund, it seems Doctor Tarsus has been taken ill," she said. "Perhaps we should prescribe some of his own suggested medicine and offer him a bible? Couple of psalms should do the trick, I imagine."

The archbishop blinked, then hurried over to the doctor – who was doubled over and groaning in pain. His boots crunching over the broken glass.

Irina chuckled, "All these interruptions! Now, where was I?"

"Irina," the prince threatened.

She spun towards his voice, "Ah yes, my _husband_, everyone. He'd like us to believe that he's a good man – that he's infallible – the town's brave protector," she said, clenching her muscles to illustrate. "After all, he defends us from bears and wolves… and _vampires_."

The guests looked puzzled, their attention wavering between Irina's speech and Doctor Tarsus' demise.

"Irina, enough!" the prince barked.

Irina pointed at him. "After all, isn't _he_ the one who promised to hunt down that monster who was responsible for attacking all those poor and defenceless serf girls?" she said. "Isn't _he_ the one who vowed to bring that so-called monster to justice?"

The prince glowered at her.

"So then, _where_ is this monster, hm?" she went on, just as a couple of other council members began cramping in pain. "Well, I'll tell you – no! Better yet, I'll _show_ you."

When Doctor Tarsus collapsed across the floor with a heavy thud – blood spilling from his lips – the guests gasped.

"Someone fetch a doctor!" Helena screamed, waving down a footman – who immediately rushed out of the ballroom.

Irina chuckled, "Oh dear! Aren't the psalms working?" she replied as she finally dove her hand deep into her pocket and drew out her pistol – training the barrel on Carmelia.

The guests reeled, backing up against the panelled walls with audible panic.

Carmelia blinked at the pistol. "You've gone insane," she snorted, folding her arms.

Irina ignored her. "_Here_ is your monster!" she announced.

Prince Lupesci staggered – almost in a daze – as his council slowly began to expire around him – even Herr Carmitru, who was crawling on the floor – reaching feebly for his wife's skirts as the poison did its worst.

Carmelia snatched up her skirts and kicked his hand away.

"_Here_ is your Vampire," Irina went on, unflinching as pointed the pistol at the newly created Baroness.

Carmelia laughed.

The other guests were unamused; suspended somewhere between fear and fascination, they watched the spectacle from the sides of the ballroom in silence.

Irina blinked at them. "What? You mean, you don't believe me?" she asked them, before pulling back the hammer and aiming the pistol right at Carmelia's heart.

Carmelia scoffed. "…What are you going to do Sparrow? Shoot me?" she remarked smoothly, without a flicker of fear.

"I've done it before," Irina countered.

"And look how far that got you," Carmelia said with a shrug. "Besides, you _know_ it won't work – bullets are useless against a vampire. Especially one as old as I am."

Irina smirked as she pulled the trigger and fired the gun.

The bullet flew from its chamber, whistled through the air, tore through Carmelia's expensive pink, satin bodice, and buried itself deep inside her heart.

There was a quiet moment after the loud bang of the gun discharging where the guests forgot the chaos and their fear for a moment and simply stared at Carmelia – glaring at her as she stood there with a bloodied hole in her chest and a serene look on her face.

She sighed. "See? _Useless_," she replied, looking down at her bloodied chest. She tutted, "Have you no shame, Sparrow? This is Italian silk!"

"…And _that_," Irina said as she threw the empty pistol to the floor, "was a silver bullet."

Carmelia's expression changed immediately – her blue eyes widening in horror for the briefest of seconds before she suddenly exploded in a dark, hanging cloud of ash, leaving nothing but a bundle of soiled Italian silk – dusty with ash and crowned with a sparkling lump of diamond jewellery.

The guests all looked on in horrified silence.

Now that Irina had their full attention, and she made immediate use of it. "She was prowling under our noses the whole time – both her and husband have tortured and killed possibly hundreds of our serfs – as well as my own father!" she told them, pointing an angry finger at Herr Carmitru as he languished on the floor beside Carmelia's ashes. "And the reason my beloved husband _failed_ to bring her – bring _them_ to justice?"

Prince Lupesci scowled as the guests turned their disturbed expressions on him.

Irina looked at him. "Why, because they've been in his employ the _whole_ time," she revealed with a victorious smirk. "He _wanted_ her to kill, to cause panic amongst us, and for what? While he _claims_ he wants a peaceful divorce from Vienna, what he really wants – what he daren't tell you – is that he's planning to drag us all into a war for it. For himself! _He_ wants to force you and your families into a ridiculous, unwinnable war with the Habsburgs simply so he can fulfil his own delusions of royalty. So that he can crown himself King of Transylvania – which, by the way, will _never_ happen as I've already sent evidence to Vienna of his treachery."

Prince Lupesci stood alone – the council lying in a lifeless, bloodied heap at his boots, his undead assassin now quite _literally_ dead – with nothing left of her but an ashen pile of silk and jewels.

Irina raised her glass to him, "Prost," she toasted, and then threw the glass to the floor.

Prince Lupesci staggered towards her with a murderous look in his usually tepid eyes.

Irina removed her wedding ring and threw it at his boots. "It's over, Alexander," she told him. "All of it. You've lost."

He snarled and looked as though he was about to reach out throttle her when suddenly, the tide of guests turned in Irina's favour – surging towards him, surrounding him.

"Is this true, Lupesci?" one man shouted.

"War with Austria? Are you out of your damn mind, Lupesci?"

Solo over, Irina decided that it was time to take her bow and vanish behind the curtain. She slipped away in the ensuing chaos, running from the ballroom as Prince Lupesci defended himself from an angry swarm of guests. She swiftly made her way through the kitchens and out into the stables, where her old Mecklenburg Mare was saddled and waiting for her – the precious few belongings she'd decided to take with her to Poenari loaded into the saddle bags. She threw on a black velvet cloak and riding gloves, and then clambered up into the saddle without noticing the black stallion on the far side of the stables that had been similarly saddled – the sight of a crossbow poking out from the saddle bags.

She was surprised how dark it was when the horse bolted from the stable door and began galloping at full speed across the cobbles of the courtyard. The sky was a deep blanket of blue as she thundered down the quiet streets bound for the town gates and beyond – a full cast of stars sparkling overhead, whilst the full moon illuminated her path to freedom.

She breathed a long sigh of relief when she passed through the town gate and made it out into the open fields and countryside, bound for the thick pine forests sprawling from Hermannstadt to Poenari – Vlad's directions to the secret entrance fresh in her mind.

Her plan had worked! It had _worked_! She'd done it – and now she had the rest of her life and afterlife free to spend exactly how she wanted – and no one would dare tell her otherwise.

However, as she dashed across the river towards the forest – the ice cold, mountain water splashing up onto her legs – she heard the sudden, shrieking bray of another horse from the other side of the river and realised – with a sinking stomach – that someone was following her.

Once her horse had climbed the riverbank, Irina turned in her saddle and looked back – gazing beyond the flapping tails of her velvet cloak to see Prince Lupesci hot on her heels.

He was driving his black stallion hard – digging the heels of his boots in and viciously whipping the reins – intent on chasing her down.

Irina panicked; she kicked her heels into the ribs of her horse as she approached the thick line of pine trunks edging the forest. She was sure she'd be able to lose him within the dark tangle of trees and thicket but was silently terrified; Alexander was an expert equestrian – or at least liked to think so. He was used to riding down fleeing wolves and bolting deer on a hunt, and – more often than not – he chased down his target and got the kill.

Still, she kept her eyes forward and thought of Vlad patiently waiting for her up ahead in Poenari. If she could make it as close as possible, then he could protect her. With that sudden thought, she ripped off the bandage around her hand and made a fist – digging her nails deep into the wound on her palm and drawing fresh blood. She smeared the blood down the neck of her horse; hopefully Vlad would smell it and come and find her.

She urged the coaxed the horse on through the forest – weaving and zigzagging between the trees, tugging the reins this way and that, making sudden, sharp turns – trying anything she could to throw Prince Lupesci off and lose him in the dense, dark forest maze. But when a crossbow bolt came flying out of nowhere and plunged deep into her shoulder blade, Irina screamed in agony and the horse suddenly reared, throwing her off.

She tumbled to the ground – landing on a bed of cold and soggy leaves and pine needles; the horse ran off into the darkness, the sound of its hooves fading into the distance.

Irina whimpered as she crawled forward through the undergrowth. The pain in her shoulder was intense – _blinding_ – pain unlike she'd ever experienced, and she could feel warm blood trickling down her back and arm. She reached a hand back and blindly felt around for the bolt, groaning from the bottom of her belly as she wrapped her fingers around the cold metal bolt and tried to tug it out. It was lodged deep, and she almost threw up from the pain when she attempted to tug it free from the bone and muscle of her shoulder blade.

It was impossible; she couldn't get the angle and the pain was just too much. Her hand came away empty and painted dark with blood.

When she heard an approaching horse, Irina scrambled backwards – dragging her heavy skirts towards a nearby tree trunk – every small movement leaving her in agony. She slumped down against the trunk as the horse shuffled to a halt nearby, closing her eyes and holding her breath as she listened to boots crunching into the undergrowth and then wading slowly through it towards her.

She clutched her pearls and tried to block out the smell of the mud and the creeping sounds of the forest, and when she wished herself away somewhere else – _anywhere_ else – she found herself back in Vienna, back in Der Blauer Karpfen. She could feel the warmth of the candles on her cheeks, and hear the music and the rustle of silks around her as people danced, and she could smell the champagne and the haze of tobacco and fading roses.

And, she saw Vlad – saw him standing amongst the crowd like a shadow, his blue eyes holding her gaze. Looking at her as if she were the only woman in the room.

She promised herself – there, crouching and cowering in the mud – that she'd make it back there one day; that they'd celebrate another Violet Tuesday there together. That if she survived the night, then a lifetime of Violet Tuesdays would be waiting for her come the dawn.

But then, the vision faded and the pain in her shoulder came stabbing back. When she opened her eyes, she saw Prince Lupesci's boots crunching through the pine needles towards her.

He roughly scooped her up and slammed her back against the tree. "Have you _any_ idea of what you've done?" he spat at her.

Irina couldn't help the breathy sob of pain that whispered from her lips, but when she looked up into the eyes that she feared most and saw both terror and despair staring back at her, she laughed. "…You've lost," she told him.

The prince drew his hand back and viciously backhanded her – hitting her so hard that her hair unravelled.

Irina composed herself, then snarled at him. "Keep going!" she shouted. "It won't change a God damn thing!"

He bared his teeth. "Do you _really_ think you've done anything more than rant a pack of lies at a handful of nobles? They already think you nothing more than an unhinged whore and liar!" he growled, slamming her hard against the tree trunk.

Irina winced in pain, then grinned through it. "Oh, but I've done a lot more than that."

Prince Lupesci seethed, tightening his grip on her clothes.

"The Empress will know of everything you've done," she explained, eyeing him defiantly. "_Everything_. I've sent her proof of your treachery – proof of everything you've planned, everything you've done."

He looked away, the cogs in his mind turning. "…The maid," he realised.

Irina smirked. "She'll be _far_ beyond your reach by now," she told him.

The prince seized her by the throat – his fingers biting into the pale skin above her pearls.

"…You're done," Irina told him with intense satisfaction – it glowed in her eyes, in the darkness. "…You're _nothing. _And it doesn't matter what you do to me here, tonight; the Empress will send her soldiers to hunt you down and – mark my words – they are _by_ _far_ the superior hunter compared to the likes of you. They _will_ find you, and you'll soon be skipping at the end of a rope."

The prince snarled at her like a cornered wolf.

"…That is if my King of Spades doesn't hunt you down first," she whispered, threatening him.

Realising that he'd lost at his own game, Prince Lupesci suddenly erupted in anger and flipped the gaming table. He threw Irina down to the ground, and before she could scramble away had pounced on top of her – wrapping both hands around her throat and squeezing tight.

Irina stared up through the canopy of pine leaves as she wriggled and kicked her feet beneath him, gasping for air. She felt the string of pearls break and slide off from her neck into the mud as the prince slowly strangled her to death – forcing the breath from her lungs and the life from her eyes.

She focused on the smell of the pine trees and the one or two stars she could see peeping through the canopy, before they – as well as everything else – blurred away into darkness.

* * *

When Vlad found her, she was still warm. There was still a flush in her cheeks and the scent of wine on her breath as he fell to his knees and cradled her limp body against his. He sobbed for her – for them both – as he buried his nose in her thick brown hair – decorated with pine needles – mourning not only for her, but for himself – for the man he was becoming, now lost forever.

And then, he saw it; the corner of a letter peeking out from beneath Irina's bodice. He carefully teased it out, his face crumbling when it emerged soaked heavily in her blood.

When he noticed his own name written in Irina's elegant swooping handwriting across the front, he immediately flipped the letter, broke the wax seal and ripped it open – still cradling her body against his.

Vlad's cold eyes quickly scanned the brief letter from top to bottom – an unrepentant anger filling him with each word – and when he was done, he balled the letter tightly within his fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .......I'm cruel, I know. I know you were all absolutely terrified for Irina and at the thought of an UN-happy ending, but don't worry, there's a much, MUCH happier epilogue to come. ;-)


	31. Epilogue

_ **Vienna, Violet Tuesday 2017** _

Irene yawned as her eyes wandered the stuffy ballroom. It was packed to the gilt rafters with colleagues and staff from Vienna General – from anaesthetists to paramedics – all of them rubbing shoulders with business big wigs and local celebrities. They'd shed their scrubs and stethoscopes for the night and donned evening gowns and tuxedos; all because some foreign billionaire had decided to have a clear out of one of his mansion attics and auction off a load of crap to raise money for the Haematology Department.

She wouldn't have bothered coming if Kristoff hadn't sent over one of his typically condescending emails right at the end of her shift – on brand with his overuse of italics and underlined phrases and splashes of red text thrown in to make it all look _really_ serious. The truth was that she'd rather have spent another twelve hours in the morgue than endure two hours at another tedious as fuck fundraiser.

Besides, that late check-in just as she was heading out the door had looked like it was going to be an interesting one – a twenty-something John Doe found in a broken chest freezer behind a bar in The Gürtel. Not a single scratch, track-mark or bruise to his pale skin _(other than some stunning tats)_; as peaceful looking as if he'd curled up, fallen asleep and never woken up.

Maybe she'd slink off early and head back to the hospital – get a head start.

Irene slouched against a nearby wall and immediately earned a tut from one of the hovering attendants – working overtime to make sure none of the guests got pissed on prosecco and ruined some priceless chunk of history.

She sent an apologetic smile, "Sorry – _heels_," she said, pointing a downward finger at the black, Gianvitto Rossi pumps she'd dropped a whole month's wages on.

An _investment_; after all she went to _a lot_ of funerals. Not that she was supposed to or was required to _(in fact, it was kind of frowned upon)_, she just couldn't seem to help herself. Somehow, she'd always felt the need to breathe life into the bodies that arrived on her slab. She needed to know who they were; what kind of life they'd had pre-mortem. Whether they'd been loved or not.

The big funerals – church halls and crematoriums packed with mourners – were fine, but it was the small ones she was always intrigued by. The ones with only a handful of people, or less.

The attendant raised an eyebrow and then strolled away – satisfied that he'd done what he was being paid for.

"…It's not like I've been on my feet _all_ _day_ – for fucks sake," Irene threw after him, only half under her breath. "I mean, put some chairs around if you don't want people to lean!"

"Oh, _there_ you are!" a familiar voice called out from amongst the crowd of suits.

Irene turned her head and spotted Amy – one of her over-friendly residents – trying to squeeze her way towards her holding two bubbling glasses of prosecco high over her blonde head.

"I was starting to think you'd already bailed," she said as she tottered towards her, prosecco extended. "Prost!"

Irene took the glass and clinked it with Amy's, "_Prost_. Can't say I'm not tempted," she admitted, stealing a swig. "To be honest, as soon as I've shown Kris that I came, I saw, I schmoozed… then I'll probably head off – you haven't seen him, have you?"

Amy pouted. "Oh_, really_?" she whined as she ran a hand through her sweeping, shoulder-length waves. She was _far_ too pretty to work in a morgue. "You're not going to hang around for the auction?"

Irene pulled a face. "No."

"Oh, come on, Rini," Amy said, grinning.

Irene shuddered; she couldn't remember how many times she'd asked her to stop calling her that – she was supposed to be her boss for fuck's sake.

"I mean, how else are you supposed to work out which one of these suits is packing the biggest chequebook if you don't hang around to watch them flash it?" Amy said, winking.

Irene sighed, "If I was interested in running off with a millionaire, then I wouldn't have gotten a job in medicine," she scoffed, throwing back more prosecco. "And I _certainly_ wouldn't have picked pathology; all the millionaires I meet are already dead."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Fine, well at least stay for the open bar," she suggested, wiggling her glass.

Irene frowned, "You _are_ aware that I'm your boss, right? You're on call tomorrow night."

Amy brushed a hand down the ruffled pleats of the lilac prom dress she was wearing – she looked like a dessert – like one of the creations in the window of Demel. "Besides, when was the last time you got to dress up and mingle with Vienna's finest? _And_ in The Hofburg, no less! All these chandeliers and ballgowns – I feel like Marie Antoinette!"

Irene chuckled, raking a hand through her short brown waves. "You do look like her," she said, gesturing to the dress. "…And if you turn up for your shift tomorrow anything less than sober then you might very well meet your end in the same way she did."

Amy blinked over the rim of her prosecco glass, "Mm, and _you_ look like cat woman – damn girl!" she said, pointing to the black, satin midi Irene was wearing – hanging from her shoulders, flowing over her curves and shining like ink. "I _love_ the dress. Looks expensive."

Irene smoothed a hand down the silk covering her body. "It's a Phoebe Brunswick," she whispered.

Amy almost sprayed her with a mouthful of prosecco. "…How do you afford to eat?"

"I found it in this vintage shop tucked away just off the Kärntner Straße, can you believe it?" Irene admitted. "Such a bargain!"

"She's probably here tonight, you know," Amy said, peering over the bobbing heads in front of them. "I wouldn't be surprised – I mean, just look at this place! I'm _sure_ I spotted Eleonore von Habsburg earlier – _and_ the girl from the annoying car insurance ads."

Irene shrugged her lips. "Who knew so many people cared about curing rare blood disorders?" she remarked dryly.

"I'm not sure they do, actually," Amy replied, shuffling her heels. "I think it's more to do with what's up for auction."

"What d'you mean?"

"It's all old jewellery and rare diamonds – the guy hosting the auction is some big collector, apparently. Have you been into the room next door to look at them yet?"

Irene shook her head distractedly – she didn't care about any of that.

Amy's blue eyes widened. "Oh, you _should_! It's like Breakfast at Tiffany's in there!" she cheered. "I'll come with you – show you if you want–"

"Maybe later, I'm going to pop out for a cigarette," Irene said as she wedged her clutch bag under her arm.

Amy's shoulders dropped. She rolled her eyes, "Lent starts tomorrow – perfect time to give them up for good, you know…!"

Irene drained the rest of her prosecco and then shoved the empty glass at Amy, "If you see Kris, tell him I'm around, will you?"

Amy smiled softly as she took it. "Sure – I'll say you're looking for him."

"Oh, and don't tell him about my John Doe," Irene warned. "That one's all mine."

Amy winked. "Gotcha boss."

Irene squeezed her way through the crowds of guests and celebrities – all talking, all laughing – and slipped out through a side door into the open corridor and stairway. She immediately breathed a sigh of relief as cool air and quiet embraced her bare shoulders and back – and then clipped her way across the landing, rummaging in her clutch bag for her cigarettes and lighter.

En route, she sidestepped a couple emerging from a darkened doorway – a large sign standing beside it with the words, _"The Poenari Collection"_ as well as a black arrow pointing inside.

Irene stopped and peered into the dimly lit room, at a selection of glass cases – all glimmering with diamonds and precious stones.

She'd never been a fan of jewellery; she only had a small jewellery box of cheap sterling silver jewellery back in her apartment, and most days she turned up at the morgue with just a pair of silver studs in her ears _(after all, the dead weren't fussy about what the woman doing their autopsy looked like – and there had been one unfortunate incident involving a missing silver hoop…)_. But when she peered through the nearest glass case and saw how the diamond teardrop earrings inside it sparkled, she couldn't help feeling a little curious.

Irene looked once over her shoulder, and then strolled inside – taking a small pamphlet from the smiling attendant standing outside.

Her brown eyes widened as she walked up and down the dark aisles, weaving in between the various cases – blue velvet cushions staging diamond necklaces, pearl necklaces, tiaras, diadems, brooches, bracelets and earrings – all with an accompanying story and lot number. Some were _very_ old – there were pearls from the sixteenth century that were as big as eyeballs, and diamond earrings called Girandoles that had escaped both the French _and_ Russian Revolutions – and some were more recent, with a couple from the collections of Grace Kelly and Elizabeth Taylor.

Irene frowned as she reached a glass cabinet at the end of the room below a large portrait of a woman from centuries ago. She found it bizarre that the collector had chosen to give them all away – to auction them off to raise money for Vienna General's Haematology Department rather than selling them. She didn't think that the research the department was undertaking was _that_ ground-breaking; it was just samey studies into Leukaemia and Anaemia, as far as she was aware – according to their latest journals. Perhaps the collector had lost someone to a blood disease – or suffered from one himself. A personal connection was surely the only reason for such extravagant philanthropy.

Irene looked down into the case and at the delicate string of black pearls curled inside it – their glossy surface illuminated by a small spotlight. They were beautiful – and would have gone well with her outfit if she'd had a spare few million handy. She had no idea that black pearls even existed – she thought they were all dyed or made of plastic – so she flicked though the pamphlet about the collection to find out more.

"_Lot Number 17: Black Pearl Necklace of The 'Little' Duchess of Brunswick_," she read quietly. "_Made from rare black pearls discovered by Spanish Conquistadors off the Venezuelan Coast in the sixteenth century, the necklace was originally created for the Spanish Infanta Maria by her father King Phillip III to celebrate her marriage to the Holy Roman Emperor. The necklace was passed down through the Habsburg royal family and subsequently inherited by Irina, the 'Little' Duchess of Brunswick, who wore it until her murder in 1770_."

Irene blinked. _Murdered_?

She glanced up at the portrait hanging over the case – and at the elegant-looking woman within it who was wearing the necklace.

"…Are you lost?" a distinctly foreign-sounding voice called from behind.

Irene turned slightly towards the voice and noticed a figure strolling slowly towards her out of the corner of her eye. She pulled a face, "Uh… no. I'm good."

Still, he stepped alongside her; the smell of heavy, oud-scented aftershave invading her space. "…It's a beautiful piece, wouldn't you agree?" he said, gesturing to the glass case in front of her.

Irene side-glanced his expensive black suit and matching shirt. "…I _would_ agree," she replied shrugging her lips.

"…Worth bidding on?"

She bubbled with laughter at that. "Oh sure, I'll just start harvesting my magic money tree now," she remarked wryly.

The man chuckled softly.

"Don't be fooled by this get-up," she told him, gesturing to her outfit. "I'm usually in scrubs. I'm just here for the free booze."

"Ah, so you're a doctor," he realised out loud, the pleasant sound of surprise in his voice.

"Sadly, yes," she replied. "And there's not much pocket money in it to go spending on five-hundred-year-old pearls, I'm afraid."

The man nodded. "Yes, I hear there's very little in the way of a financial reward for saving lives these days."

Irene wrinkled her freckled nose. "…Well, I hate to disappoint – _again_," she replied, turning to face him, "but my patients are beyond saving. They're already dead."

When her amused brown eyes finally met his steely blue – and slightly confused – gaze, she blinked. He was unbearably, _infuriating_ handsome – from the fine hair growing along his pointed jaw, to his heavy, arched eyebrows and loose waves of dark – almost black – hair. There was something awfully familiar about him, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it; he was probably stinking rich – she'd probably seen his face whilst flicking through a magazine in the on-call room.

She blushed, "Uh, I'm a Pathologist," she explained, tucking a loose, brown curl behind her ear. "_Forensic_."

The man suddenly smiled and nodded – his gaze chasing her fingertips as they smoothed their way through her hair.

"So, I'm not so much in the business of _saving_ lives," Irene went on. "I'm more about… solving deaths."

The man's lips curled as his gaze tiptoed across her freckles. "Interesting."

Irene bit her lip. "…So, are _you_ going to bid?" she asked, pointing to the pearls gleaming in front of them.

The man shoved his hands into his pockets. "No," he replied. "Actually, I'm the one who's selling them."

Irene's eyebrows bounced. "…Oh," she stuttered, throwing a hand to her lips. She glanced over her shoulder at the maze of cabinets behind them, "So these are all–"

"Mine, yes," he smirked. "…For another hour, at least."

Irene's expression shifted; she narrowed her eyes. "…Why on earth would you just give all this beautiful jewellery away?" she asked. "All this history!"

The man hesitated. He turned away slightly, frowning as he lifted his gaze to the portrait.

"…I mean, I get it," Irene added quickly – afraid she'd offended him. "You're doing an incredible thing giving the money to the hospital – it'll help so many people, I'm sure – but… _why_? There must be story to it."

The man tore his eyes away from the portrait and shrugged his lips. "An old… _friend_ of mine was a doctor," he explained. "She had a profound interest in blood, you see – she was obsessed with understanding it, _studying_ it. If she could see how far haematology has come today, she'd be astounded."

Irene sent him a sympathetic smile as she realised she'd been right; it sounded as if this _friend_ was very much past tense. "…I'm sure she would."

The man suddenly offered her his hand. "Vlad."

Irene looked down at it for a moment before placing her own inside it. "Irene," she replied, blushing as his cold fingers enveloped hers.

He held on to her hand for a moment longer than he should have, his thumb brushing across her knuckles.

Irene smiled nervously as she slipped her hand from his – immediately throwing it into her hair. "…Well, I should probably head back," she told him. "As I said, I _was_ popping out for a cigarette before your crown jewels caught my eye."

Vlad raised an eyebrow.

Irene laughed. "_Not_ what I meant," she insisted, raising her hands.

He smirked. "...A doctor who smokes," he said. "I'm surprised."

Irene turned to walk away. "We all have to die someday, Vlad," she replied with a slight grin. "Nice meeting you. Good luck with the auction; I'll keep an eye out for my pearls. Don't let some sleazy politician low ball you," she added with a wink, pointing to the case with her clutch bag.

"…Farewell, iubita mea," he replied softly, watching as she strolled off through the dark room and vanished from sight – the sound of her heels retreating.

Once she was gone, Vlad turned back to the glass case and peered at the black pearl necklace nestled inside it. He sighed as he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone. He speed-dialled his assistant, and then lifted the phone to his ear.

"…Buna," he said. "…I've changed my mind – can we _remove_ Lot 17 from the auction? No, no buyer – I just want the pearls removed, understand? I'm going to keep hold of them for a while longer..."

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Honestly, after publishing last week's chapter I held off on reading any reviews because I was absolutely damn near terrified of what you'd all think about me killing off our leading lady. But hopefully this will make for a much happier read. Obviously it's an Epilogue and an ending to Magia Posthuma, but consider it a bit of a Prologue to its sequel (which I haven't even started writing yet - don't get too excited!) - with a few nuggets of what's in store (please let me know if you caught any of them - hopefully there's a hint as to the fate of at least two other characters from Magia Posthuma).
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who's been reading and following the story from start to finish - I've had an absolute blast writing it and posting it! And to those who reviewed, I can't thank you enough - your words of support and encouragement mean the world, honestly. :-)


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